


Drown The Moon

by heckingbignerd



Category: Exalted (Roleplaying Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 96,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckingbignerd/pseuds/heckingbignerd
Summary: A coterie of Lunars are plunged into rain-soaked Champoor to play kingmaker for the Silver Pact, ensuring the right people end up in power.This is that story.Drown The Moon is an Exalted 3e Lunars game that I run for my five players. People asked to read it. Here, they can. This is the IC logs pasted in.





	1. Good Morning, Champoor

RY 778

It's early morning in Champoor. Gray sky spits down rain in a drizzle, the overcast clouds lazily sprawling to the horizon. The city wakes up slowly and with a bad hangover, the morning wash doing it no favors.

In a certain teahouse in Lighthouse District, the air is warm and sweet. This is a quiet place where there's no trouble. There's peace - and in Champoor, city of a thousand luxuries and vices, port of opportunity and ambition, peace is by far the scarcest commodity. Powerful people come here for their morning teas, sweets and chitchat before they go about their business. They get a routine. And they value that routine highly.

The proprietor, a fat Champoori known only as Big Man with a beard like a pine tree and your-deity-of-choice-only-knows how many embroidered silken robes, swings by every table to take orders, take the pulse of the city.

"Good morning to you, sir," he says amiably to one of his regular customers.  
[4:43 PM] Orochi: The city has a way of staining everything it touches: trailing over it, tracing it with fingers of smoke and soot, of smudged, brightly colored paint and heavy, heady fumes. You'd think the water would wash it away, that the constant storm would cleanse you of it, but the rain stains you in its own way. Plasters your clothes to your skin even as the humid heat, the sky-borne chill, seep inside you. An eternal downpour eroding something undefinable as all around you the gutters churn, foaming and raging. A hundred overflowing, bloated rivers rushing to the bay. Steadily wearing grooves into the foundations.  
[4:45 PM] Orochi: And amidst all of this he sits, slowly sipping tea. His clothes porcelain pale and immaculate, skin flawless and without blemish, long, dark hair without a single snarl or mat. Not so much as an errant mark on his jacket, a damp patch beneath his arms. Utterly untouched by it all as he reads.  
[4:46 PM] Orochi: "And a good morning to you too," he says mildly.  
[4:51 PM] The Rookrook: Big Man pours Orochi's usual in a fine cup imported from Ysyr. He smiles a pleasant, absent smile.

"To think," he sighs, "we had just had a week with no rain. And now it looks like we're back to the usual. I hope it doesn't get too much worse. But," Big Man winks, "word on the street is Tenepeshu's got us all in for a real big one coming. This is just the start."

Big Man always has word on the street. Big Man asks no questions, and he hears everything.  
[4:59 PM] Orochi: "Oh, that does't sound so bad," Orochi says with a small smile of his own, "I'm something of a water snake you know. All this wet really does suit me. So in a way I suppose I'm even looking forward to it."

He likes Big Man. He likes Big Man in the way a man likes a favorite path home, a particular chair by the fire, a usual meal. Routine and habit, a familiar fixture. He likes Big Man because he's a part of a packaged experience, because his attention is, in its own way, a commodity. Something that's for sale as much as the sweet bean pastries, the tea, the privacy and the atmosphere in this place. A little touch of the "even in a city like Champoor, there's someone who knows you". For sale: the kind of friend who you can keep for an hour, don't have to really care about, and can put back in the box when you're done without feeling a shred of guilt or obligation.  
[4:59 PM] Orochi: Big Man's put a lot of effort into making it all seem so natural, so effortless. And he respects that in his own way, appreciates it. It's a feeling almost like...  
[4:59 PM] Orochi: Nostalgia.  
[5:06 PM] The Rookrook: "Mm." Big Man hums neutrally, the tone resonating with the buzz of the insects seeking shelter from the rain in the window sill. "I bet you are. Cakes?" He answers his own question and sets three pastries so crumbly, they start to teeter just from being set down.

"By the way," Big Man says. "You didn't hear it from me, of course, " because Orochi never does, "but this one is different then usual. What's left of the Realm is finally shaping up. Prasad's had it up to here with the Five Fingers. And the old houses... well." He licks his lips. "If I were you, dear snake, I'd pay a visit to your special friend, that monsoon god. The one you bring here sometimes. "

"Hey! A little service here!" some newcomer bleats, a muscled, pale man with a Lookshyan accent.

"Right you are. Be right with you, sir."  
[5:07 PM] The Rookrook: Big Man gets back to work, for the only employer he's ever had, and that he ever will have: himself.

So why is it he seems so nervous?  
[5:12 PM] Orochi: Orochi smiles blankly, vacantly at the plate, at the eggshell page of the book before him, red eyes taking it all in and his mind a million miles away. It's a kind of fracture in its own way. A sort of hairline crack in the facade, a pause as he processes. As he considers and compensates and quietly secrets the fact and the suggestion away.

Slowly, slowly, he closes the book. Black nailed hand lingering on the cover. Slowly, slowly he picks up lacquered cutlery and gently tugs the plate a little closer. Tucking in, unhurried and unconcerned.  
[5:12 PM] Orochi: He'll have to adjust his schedule for the day.  
[5:27 PM] The Rookrook: --

Orochi strolls through the city as it bustles to life, the rain a slow, miserable constant. He knows where to find Jangma. At the docks in the heart of Five Fingers turf, watching the refugees, traders, pimps and crooks play dice games.

In his human form Jangma is a slender man with smooth blue skin and gray, beady eyes above a cocky smirk, tattooed all up his well-toned arms with the bands and signs of the Five Fingers - the iconic cupped hand prominent. He's arguing with a Dragonblooded trader--that is to say, he's yelling, she's wilting, people are watching and the wind's picking up.

He bares his teeth, face darkening to cobalt rage. Then he catches Orochi's eye, and shoves the trader into a pile of fish. Everyone laughs. The tension disperses.

"Hey handsome," Jangma says. "How's it hanging?"  
[5:30 PM] Orochi: They're a study in contrasts really. Jangma is...well, a divinity with all that entails. A monsoon god, a holy serpent, all stormwinds and driving rain and laughing-mad typhoons compacted down into an almost human form for the sake of his own convenience (and it is his, not yours, the distinction is important). Even if it's adopted he's very much a thing of flesh and blood, of hunger and appetite and emotion.

Orochi is...not.  
[5:33 PM] Orochi: Orochi is like a painting of a person, done up in bone-white brush strokes and silver leaf. Jacket and coat despite the heat. High collared tunic. Trousers. Water dripping from the brim of a hat that sits low. Shading everything but his mouth, everything but that smile (a little slyer now, a little more sincere).  
[5:34 PM] Orochi: "Good morning Jangma," he says, unfazed and untroubled; making no move to stand beneath a nearby awning. No move to get out of the rain.  
[5:36 PM] The Rookrook: "Isn't it just? Mother dearest always knows how to set the mood." He flashes fangs and gold teeth, his windswept-but-dry hair floating in a breeze unfelt. The humidity doesn't really bother either of them, nor the rain, but everyone else is under umbrellas or awnings, huddled away or working with rain-capes, pressed down as if by some invisible, oppressive hand.  
[5:37 PM] The Rookrook: "What brings you to my neck of the woods?" Jangma asks it casually, but his eyes are intense. "My smiling face? My beautiful scales? My wonderful personality?"  
[5:37 PM] The Rookrook: He chuckles at his own sense of humor. The punchline is that he means it.  
[5:39 PM] Orochi: "My my," he says as the Dragonblooded trader picks her way out of a mound of piscine flesh and silvery scales and makes her own discrete exit behind him, neither of them really sparing her a second glance, "You're in fine form today. But what kind of question is that? You know I'd always make time for you. Even if I didn't want something."

And that's the punchline.  
[5:39 PM] Orochi: He means it too.  
[5:41 PM] Orochi: This is the kind of game between them, the constant back and forth. In a city of uncounted thousands, tens of thousands, of nobles and criminals and killers and refugees there's been all of one, one who's managed to crack and rattle that perfect, porcelain mask Orochi wears. Who's managed to figure out that it's a mask at all, much less what's underneath. Who's managed to capture his own interest in spite of it (because of it?), ensure that he keeps coming back despite his own nature, his own better judgement. Who's managed to pull something like honesty out of him and isn't that a miracle all on its own? An act worthy of Heaven itself.

This is their rhythm: Jangma pushes, Orochi plants his feet. Jangma tests, Orochi cheats. The monsoon god takes a hammer to the facade and the man adjusts his hat, brushes his hair back, smiles and asks for another.  
[5:45 PM] The Rookrook: "Even if." Jangma smiles. "But that's not an answer to my question." He can't read Orochi under the hat. And he doesn't like that.  
[5:46 PM] The Rookrook: "So, if you would just be so kind as to fucking answer me, I'd really appreciate it. How 'bout it huh?"  
[5:49 PM] Orochi: And that, oh that gets a laugh. Bright and cheerful as Orochi takes his hat and presses it to his chest; his expression faintly amused, his features delicate going on feminine, handsome going on beautiful. The kind of thing that seems like it'd shatter if you so much as dropped it, chip and fragment, but Jangma knows better, he knows better (he's seen the seal on his brow, after all).  
[5:49 PM] Orochi: "Please, we both know I'm anything but kind."  
[5:49 PM] Orochi: "But...we should speak somewhere more private."  
[5:50 PM] The Rookrook: "Oooh. Real important, huh? Alright." Jangma's smile widens into a grin. "I got just the spot."  
[7:05 PM] The Rookrook: ---

Jangma has lots of spots. This one is a little hole in the wall, a stairway between two squat buildings within a mile of the peer. It's a safehouse, a place to go when you don't have anywhere else. With all the dust in it, it must have been a long time since it got used.

"Okay. We're somewhere private." Jangma sits down on the bare floor. There's not even bedding. "So talk. What do you want."  
[7:09 PM] Orochi: "If it wasn't so trite at this point, I'd lead off with 'there's a storm brewing' or 'there's clouds on the horizon' you know." Orochi remains standing, hat in one hand, the other at his side, black-blue scales gleaming past the cuff, like matching silver lined gloves fashioned from so much dragon flesh. Thinner, finer, but otherwise identical bands curling up over the collar of his tunic, his coat, interspersing the once-tanned, increasingly pale flesh, "This city really does murder all the good sayings."  
[7:09 PM] Orochi: A pause, more contemplative than anything else.  
[7:10 PM] Orochi: "...It's nothing concrete, but it's concerning enough that I thought I'd speak with you. Prasad and the Realm seem to be escalating, headed towards some decisive action, and the old houses are-"  
[7:10 PM] Orochi: "Well."  
[7:10 PM] Orochi: "Some notoriously unruffled men seem decidedly ruffled about whatever it is they're up to."  
[7:13 PM] The Rookrook: Jangma snorts at the mention of the old houses. "Yeah? So what, Prasad finally turned its attention back northwest? Big deal. Whoop-dee-fuckin'-do. Champoor's a Prasad holding in name only at this point. And the old houses aren't shit. They haven't been since the Five Fingers came up years ago."

He eyes Orochi, looking at him sideways with eyes like the wall of a monsoon. "Who's got their feathers ruffled about this? It's not like you to be worried."  
[7:15 PM] Orochi: "No one person," he says evenly, "Just a sort of miasma of rumor. If it was just merchants on the street I'd hardly pay it any mind but I've been hearing similar from people who are...proximate to the powerful."  
[7:16 PM] Orochi: "So I thought I'd save everyone some time and consult the actually powerful."  
[7:21 PM] The Rookrook: Jangma shakes his head. "Okay. Fine. I'll play ball. You want to know what they're up to? I'll tell you."

He grins, shooting for rueful, and almost making it. "Me. I cut a deal with the Firefly, the old man of the Nagara. He'll keep me up to date with what the others are doing - and, believe you me, they're finally doing; have you seen how many whores have found up in the bay lately? - and in return, well..."

He spreads his arms wide.

"I'll remember him when I run this town."  
[7:21 PM] The Rookrook: He stands up, drawing to his full, imposing height.  
[7:22 PM] Orochi: Orochi's eyebrows arch a fractional inch, it has the same aura as a polite round of applause.  
[7:24 PM] The Rookrook: "See, the pieces are moving." Jangma speaks with a fevered energy. "Everyone's out for a slice, and Tenepeshu, she's got everything in her fist. But you can only hold a fist for so long before you loose that strength. The Five Fingers own Champoor, Orochi. We've gone from the underdogs to the government. And we still give Prasad jade!" He spits, a dire curse in this part of the Dreaming Sea.

"Tenepeshu wants independence, but she's not thinking big enough. We don't have to settle for that. We can do more. We're the biggest port in the Dreaming Sea. We can do anything."

His fists ball. "I'm tired of her," Jangma says. "I'm tired of the prayers all going to her. I've busted my scaly behind for years and I'm still just a lieutenant. So you know what I want, Orochi? What I'm doing?"

"I'm taking what I deserve."  
[7:25 PM] The Rookrook: "And if I have to kick the board over to get it," he says, eyes flashing with lightning, "then so be it. I don't care how many other people want Champoor. Fuck 'em."  
[7:27 PM] Orochi: "You," he says softly as he puts his hat back on his head, nothing visible for a moment but a smile like a moonlit slash, a curved crescent showing for once (for once) those pretty, pointed, white teeth, "Are a dangerously attractive man."  
[7:28 PM] Orochi: "I'm with you, as I said."  
[7:28 PM] Orochi: "Partner."  
[7:29 PM] The Rookrook: Jangma is silent for a moment.  
[7:29 PM] The Rookrook: "When you do try and stab me in the back," he finally says, "make sure I look good. I'd hate to have to kill you on an off-day."  
[7:30 PM] Orochi: "Oh just you wait," he says, "I'll be nothing but loyal til the day you die."  
[7:30 PM] Orochi: "And won't that be devastating?"  
[7:32 PM] The Rookrook: That gets a laugh out of him. "Oh, my dear moonchild," he says, wiping away a tear that's more salt than water. His voice is hungry. "I would just love for you to devastate me."  
[7:36 PM] Orochi: "Well," he says with something like genuine affection, warming himself on that hunger like a serpent on a sunlit stone, "I do have the morning free you know."  
[7:36 PM] Orochi: This is how it goes with the two of them. How it almost always goes.  
[7:36 PM] Orochi: And all things considered, he can't even say that he hates it.  
[7:43 PM] The Rookrook: ---

By noon the rain hasn't let up. Orochi, looking none the worse for wear, strolls uptown to his little slice of the city that he's eked out, far enough away from the docks. The neighborhood is a maze of side streets and back alleys sprawling uphill. Children play on steps under awnings that slosh water. Parents struggle to keep them from stepping onto the streets, slipping into the fast-moving rivers of filthy rainwater running down toward the bay, and being swept away.

He turns a sharp corner and sees one of his men, a messenger, standing at attention outside his office's front door. The man is soaked from head to toe, without rain-cape or umbrella or any clothing for the weather.  
[7:47 PM] Orochi: They do better in the rain, in the storm and the rapids. But really, they ought to. It's only consistent, congruent.  
[7:47 PM] Orochi: After all: he does.  
[7:52 PM] Orochi: He pauses on his stoop, crimson eyes taking in the other man, the younger man (barely a boy really but he has that haunted, half-haggard look of old soldiers and doesn't that say everything it needs to about the world today?). Gently, gingerly he cups the man's jaw, tilting his head. Inspecting the seeming-beggar's blindfold, carefully lifting up the soaked linen to examine the slitted eye, ringed in scales, below.  
[7:52 PM] Orochi: "Hm. Mm mm. Ah."  
[7:52 PM] Orochi: "That's healing nicely."  
[7:52 PM] Orochi: "What is your message?" He asks pleasantly.  
[7:54 PM] The Rookrook: The messenger opens his mouth wide, wider than a human can, revealing a pale white cricket holding a roll of papyrus.  
[7:56 PM] Orochi: Cheeks hollowing, skin going thin, giving way to holes and flesh stretched in tatters as something reptilian and monstrous bleeds through. Tendons shifting, joints popping as hypodermic fangs reflexively unfold. The anatomy of the jaw elegantly, painlessly adjusting to compensate for the new physiology.  
[7:57 PM] Orochi: Orochi politely holds out a hand, letting the silvery pale cricket hop onto his wrist with the scroll in tow.  
[8:03 PM] The Rookrook: The cricket turns around once, deposits the scroll, and leaps away into the rain. A fat raindrop hits it midair, and it falls to the ground and splatters into an oily smear.

Unrolling the scroll, Orochi can see it's made out of velum. Human skin.

little monster,

I have watched. I have decided. Champoor is on the brink. Your job is to give it a shove.

It has been agreed amongst the regional shahan-yas that Champoor must needs change. Power must change hands, or Tenepeshu must comply further to the Pact's wishes. We have come so far since the Realm plunged into civil war.

Two Lunars will be arriving. Two are already there.

You will lead them over the brink.

You will land on your feet.

Be what you are.

Do not disappoint me,

MHS  
[8:04 PM] The Rookrook: It falls to pieces of moonlight in his hands.  
[8:04 PM] Orochi: And he stands there in the rain, in the silence, dead to the world for a long.  
[8:04 PM] Orochi: Long.  
[8:04 PM] Orochi: Moment.  
[8:05 PM] Orochi: Behind him the messenger closes his mouth, two pops as the joints realign, his fanged, venomous maw collapsing into something more human, less distinct. His master and maker doesn't even notice.  
[8:05 PM] Orochi: His lips part.  
[8:05 PM] Orochi: His lips close.  
[8:06 PM] Orochi: Forked tongue suddenly desert dry, whatever good feelings Jangma left him with replaced by- by what? Some queasy sensation. Half-nausea, half anticipation.  
[8:07 PM] Orochi: "Call-" he starts, pauses, swallows. And then that moment of hesitation is gone, wiped away as if it never happened, the mask firmly back in place. "Call the talon-captains to my office."  
[8:08 PM] Orochi: "We have work to do."


	2. Gathering Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first 'full episode'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gathering Storm" takes place shortly after "Good Morning, Champoor" and is the first session our group had--"Good Morning, Champoor" was just a one-off prologue.
> 
> CW: implied sexual abuse

[1:07 PM] The Rookrook: ((Episode 1 - Gathering Storm))

The old sailor, asking no questions and possessing no curiosity, ropes the boat onto the mostly empty pier in Lighthouse District. His crew say nothing as they lower the gankplank in the driving rain.

He does not look at his two passengers. He was not paid to look. He does not bid them farewell or sigh in relief as they disembark into the misty night, the only lights the famous Champoor rainlanterns, the rotating beam of the lighthouse beacon, and intermittent moonlight punching through the clouds.

He does not look at the three strangers standing in the empty, select pier where ships with important business arrive. He knows that he does not want to see. Him and his sailors tie the boat tight, and say a little prayer.

Him and his crew vanish below deck, leaving five strangers alone in oil-swirls of moonlight.  
[1:13 PM] Bian: The woman in the oilskin doesn't look like she belongs here. It's not just her golden skin, her jade-red eyes, her jasmine-scented hair that's done in the way the stylish women in the lounges do it. It's the edge of nerves, the way the laugh-lines crease around her cheeks better suited for smiling than frowning, the way she taps her blue-green nails (they have to be painted, right?) together.

Her nostrils flare as she inhales. The air smells of tar, of rot in the water, of the things Champoor doesn't like to notice.

"Oh, this is just an awful night," she begins out of the blue, chattering. Like someone who's letting their mouth work to break an awful silence. "But that's Champoor for you. I've been here a while and I haven't gotten used to the rain. It's even worse than home in monsoon season. We should get inside, we really should.

"Oh! You are the ones who... um, are meant to be showing up, right? I'll be really embarrassed if you're a different bunch of cloaked strangers!"  
[1:15 PM] Coyote: Coyote takes a deep breath, lungs drawing in the air of the city. When he exhales his lips pull back into an oddly canine scowl, revealing teeth that almost look like fangs. It isn't the tanneries nearby that sour his mood so visibly, or the reek of fish left behind to rot after the day's catch. It isn't even the sweat of sailors working, even at this late hour, in order to prepare for tomorrow.

There is a pulse to every city, the thrumming of a beating heart that sends blood pumping to myriad limbs. It is vitality, almost like a soul. But what happens when circulation is cut off? What happens when a body is left without blood, without air, and without all the many little things necessary for life?

That was when decay set in. That was when a city, and the people within, began to fall apart. So Coyote, his true name lost in the mists of a history he wished he could forget but couldn't help remember, scowls as he took in the night.

"We're the ones you're looking for," he says, adjusting his kufiyah around his head. In the humidity he would need to keep it looser than normal. "No need to get skittish."  
[1:20 PM] Curio: Even though she stansd a step behind Orochi and Bian, Curio is immediately attention-grabbing. Perhaps it is serpent's nest of blue shalws she drapes herself in, heavy with Champoor's permeating waters; or perhaps it is the silver-white of her body peeking from underneath them, catching every stray mote of moonlight to reflect and refract it back. To look at her is to see shining clouds reflected in midnight's sea. It's hard to look away.

She knows it, and she savours it.  
[1:21 PM] Orochi: The woman in the oilskin is nervous, on edge and anxious, but whyever would she be so ill at ease? One really only needs to look to her companions on that narrow slip to get a sense of the answer.

He stands with an umbrella on his shoulder, treated cloth in ivory shades stretched between spars of pale wood. Hat forgone for the night, letting glossy-dark hair hang free, a waterfall of oil and pitch cascading past his shoulders, to the top of his back. His clothes pristine, utterly immaculate despite the surrounding filth, the dripping tar and the puddles of greasy water. Delicate scales layer the back of his hand, winding around the faintly tanned flesh of his forearm. His smile is a perfect, porcelain thing.

The woman in the oilskin knows him, knows the other woman beside him. Has seen him before, in the shadowed seats reserved for those special patrons. And he knows her too. He's seen her on stage after all.  
[1:22 PM] Wren: It takes a few extra minutes, to the point where they'd assume the old sailor stodgy and prudish as he was, was probably annoyed but desperately trying to not look the part.

At least, that's what Wren would like to imagine. They left the bunk (hardly the most comfortable place) and even worse, they had left it empty-handed. Nobody had the decency to have anything of value below deck! And to their massive disappointment Coyote was a bit too experience to leave anything of worth underneath.

But they still had a cloak. A massive, blue thing that was a bit too plain for their liking. And underneath, with each of their jumps, one could see their glimmering golden highheels, blue leggings with complex gold patterns, and a loincloth that barely left much to the imagination.

They took two steps outside at the top of the plank, and immediately recoiled at the smell.

"Ah, Champoor." They sigh. "Still not much better than how I left it, no?" They bound down the planks, slap their hand across Coyote's shoulder. "Have you been here before, stud? Or not? It's hard to remember the conversations between the...meetings." They quirk their eyebrows up and down.

It was probably a bit too much to ask for subtlety from Wren.  
[1:22 PM] Coyote: "I've not ventured this far out, no. Creation's a big place."  
[1:22 PM] Curio: "Isn't this exciting?" Curio asks Orochi, raising a hand to his shoulder, fingers clicking one-two-three.  
[1:24 PM] Orochi: "I'm absolutely electric with anticipation," he says mildly, affectionately.  
[1:25 PM] Curio: "Tense?" she asks. There's a smile in those words, even if there is no room for it on her face.  
[1:26 PM] Bian: The woman in the oilskin clicks her fingers, drawing their attention. She tilts her head, the question obvious in her posture, in her gestures. She wishes to know if they're all chosen by the Moon; all here on the orders of the Silver Pact? In the moonlight, something is visible on her hand, just in a stray ray; below the henna lines, thin silvery tattooed traceries that are there one moment and gone the next.  
[1:27 PM] Coyote: Coyote quirks an eyebrow at Bian, and then removes the glove of his left hand. There, in the faint light of the moon, shine fingers made of the purest silver.

"That good enough for you?"  
[1:27 PM] Orochi: Blood-red irises, slitted pupils track over first the towering tall, grizzled wall of muscle and then the ostentatious slip of a person beside him. His smile doesn't shift a fraction of an inch, there's a sense you'd have to break his jaw to get it to move at all. "Oh, not in the slightest," he murmurs to the woman behind him, beside him.  
[1:28 PM] Wren: Wren clicks their tongue. "I suppose creation is big yes." Their eyes wander across the bay, past the murky water and ships.

Perhaps it wasn't for the best that they were already looking down Orochi. Probably wealthy, given his stature. Definitely good-looking.

A bit ominous, perhaps seemed full of himself.  
[1:32 PM] Wren: Coyote they knew really quite well. At least they knew his body.

The woman in oilskin? Interesting but not their type.

The silver-white woman? Also quite interesting. They quietly hoped the silver-white also represented her coinpurse.  
[1:32 PM] Curio: Curio clicks her fingers again. The sound is sharp, like glass striking glass. "You have design for them, Orochi?" she whispers into her companions ear.  
[1:34 PM] Orochi: The edges of that smile crack, crooking, curving up into something slightly more jagged. Something a shred less wholesome.  
[1:34 PM] Orochi: "(Don't I always?)"  
[1:35 PM] Wren: Wren blinks at the smile, then they quiiiietly slip back towards Coyote's side.  
[1:36 PM] Curio: She clicks for the third time; chimes. It sounds like chimes.

Then, she steps forward and allows the fabrics covering her head slide down, revealing the blank slate of her face; literally. Silver patterns weave across the white surface like trickles of water.

"Welcome to Champoor, friends" she says in a sweet tone.  
[1:40 PM] Coyote: Coyote grunts. "Well, I guess it was about time I saw something new."

He slips his glove back on, hiding the shining gleam of his hand. Slowly, he settles his hands on his belt and leans back on his heels. A glance notes Wren's presence, but beyond that he makes no visible response to the attractive younger Lunar slipping next to him.

"So we got somewhere we can get out of the rain? Maybe get a drink?"  
[1:41 PM] Bian: Bian smiles, a warm, genuine expression. "I know a place, newfound friends. I know the owner. Very well."  
[1:44 PM] The Rookrook: There's a meeting with Tenepeshu scheduled for later tonight. But the group has a few hours to kill before then.  
[1:45 PM] The Rookrook: And even for the Exalted, Champoor isn't a town to stand around in at night, in the rain. They would do well to get inside.  
[1:46 PM] Bian: ---  
[1:50 PM] Bian: The Lady's Smile is a club that's sprung up fairly recently in rain-soaked Champoor, and it's already gained more than its fair share of fame. It has all the classical things a proper lounge in this corrupt city needs, of course; hardwood interior, air thick with tobacco and pot, drinks that flow easily and tables where money can be lost and even sometimes won. Blue paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, catching the silvered mirrors on the walls. But what's made its fame is the beauty and skill of the rotating singers that show up here. It has a talent for picking up rare skills and people who are just travelling through - people new, never seen before by the crime lords of this place.

Vo Bian leads her new friends in through a back entrance, and - discarding her oilskin - takes them up to a VIP box that overlooks the main floor of the lounge. Even this late, it's still busy - and the moon shines in through the expensive glass panels in the roof.

"Friends," she says warmly, sitting herself down and slipping her shoes off to reveal her toenails are as strangely iridescent as her fingers. "What do you want? Oh, Bi Zan?"

A native Champoori leans in. "Yes, boss."

She smiles at the others, a radiant expression. "Give them what they want. It's on me."  
[1:53 PM] Coyote: "Liquor would do me nicely," Coyote says. "On the rocks. Wasn't much in the way of good drinking on the trip over here. Just watered down wine to keep people's breakfast from leaving them."  
[1:53 PM] Bian: Bian claps her hands together. "Get the man the local delicacy," she looks him up and down, "and he looks like the sort who'll like a strong lime chaser to go with it."  
[1:55 PM] Curio: Curio stays silent and asks for nothing; she knows they know her here, and that they know her needs and habits. By the time she sits down with others, a small cup of bitter-scented liquor, tar-black is placed before her.

Her shawls slowly turn red in the blue light, with water draining off them.  
[1:56 PM] Bian: The proprietor's brow wrinkles. She looks like she's trying to find a way to politely ask Curio to not get her expensive silk cushions wet, without offending her or sounding like she's nagging.  
[1:57 PM] Curio: She needen't worry. By the time Curio has entered the longue, her shawls are vivid red and dry as southern sands.  
[1:58 PM] Orochi: Orochi settles himself delicately, almost daintily into his seat. His own drink appearing at his elbow a moment later, something scarlet and sweet, with cherry liqueur and cuttings of fresh fruit (and that's one of the perks isn't it, of being known if not necessarily notorious, people take those pains on your behalf). Jacket and long tunic utterly untouched by the city, by the constant late night (early morning?) drizzle, by the sweat the humidity draws from the skin. Still as clean as the day they were stitched. Out of the night and without the umbrella half-shading his face you can get a better look at the man: he's more beautiful than he is handsome, more almost-fragile than remotely fearsome. Eyes carefully touched up with gentle smudges of kohl, features accentuated with brushed-on paint. Expensive cosmetics worn sparingly, not out of any sense of privation but simply...restraint.

Good taste.  
[1:58 PM] Wren: Well that's definitely a good way to get on Wren's good side. As soon as they step inside, they throw the cloak aside. Their golden clothes glimmer in the glitzy, bright club. They've somehow managed to wear something that is both more expensive than any clothes should ever be, while also barely qualifying as clothes.

"Oh I would simply prefer a tea and some breakfast. A massive breakfast. Whatever seems good by you I will probably be alright with~." They stretch their arms, like that cloak was choking them just by dint of them wearing it too damn long.

As in for all of twenty minutes.

"Ah, that's just so refreshing." They breathe in the smell of tobacco, and it's tempting to just dip into old habits.

Then they realize that they actually have a reason for being here. However much they despised it.  
[1:59 PM] Coyote: Coyote's own clothing is not so fortunate as Curio's, but he does not remove the black bisht over his red kaftan as he sits down. There is a faint clatter from his belt as he settles, the creak of leather and perhaps the acrid scent of a fire smoldering in the hearth.

Again he adjusts his kufiyah, waiting for his drink to arrive.  
[1:59 PM] Bian: "Bi Zan, please see how the kitchens are doing," Bian tells her servant. "It's a bit late for a normal meal - or maybe early - but I'm sure they can rustle something up."  
[2:00 PM] Curio: Curio's head turns towards Orochi for a moment: it's hard to say where she is looking, but she seems to be paying him sharp attention.

"So many beautiful people here."  
[2:01 PM] The Rookrook: The music thrums, a discordant, driving trio of harps playing avant-garde pulses in edgy modes over a thumping set of pitched hide drums. A soloist, a beautiful, shirtless woman with ebony skin covered in tattoos, leads the crowd with throaty singing as she slaps a percussive box. The kind of music that's classy but makes you want to get up and dance until your heart leaps out of your throat.  
[2:02 PM] Bian: "Of course, boss," the servant says, vanishing off. They can hear the sound of him giving orders outside.

"Well, I do try my best," Bian says to Curio with a chuckle behind her hand. "Some of the other places in this city are really very... ugly. But fun should be fun, right? Right!" She looks over at Wren. "How was the travel, by the way? Some people find the sea here takes them particularly badly. And gives dreadful dreams."  
[2:04 PM] Curio: "Oh, I know" Curio replies glibly, allowing the I've been there often to remain unspoken. They both know.  
[2:05 PM] Wren: "Ah, well I hardly noticed. I've never been much of one to pay attention to the waves, the people are far more interesting to me." They put their chin on their hands. "The crew was bland as brick though. No response, no reaction. At least there was one person who was interesting...for a myriad of reasons."  
[2:05 PM] Wren: There's a bit of a pause. Then they sigh.

"Sex. I mean sex."  
[2:05 PM] Coyote: Coyote snorts.  
[2:08 PM] Bian: Bian breaks into girlish giggles at that. "Well, I'm very pleased you found your own entertainment," she says, reaching out to pat Wren's knee. "Oh!" Her drink has arrived without her saying anything - something big, very mango-y, and made with coconut water. It is very fruity, but from the smell not actually very alcoholic. That makes sense. Compared to some of the muscle-bound figures around her, the woman in the courte dress with jasmin-scented hair looks like she could be blown over in a stiff breeze. Or by a stiff drink.

She takes an audible sip, and sighs. "Well, you two - Coyote and Wren. Have you arranged accommodation here yet? There are certain districts you want to keep well away from."  
[2:09 PM] Coyote: "I've not, but I've my own ways of getting out of the rain."  
[2:10 PM] Wren: "Oh, I am well aware." Wren waves their hand around. "But what he said. We still need to arrange a place to stay. Oh, but woe is me! I've yet to truly discover one that lives up to mine standards."  
[2:10 PM] Wren: "At a reasonable price."  
[2:11 PM] Coyote: There is another snort.  
[2:11 PM] Orochi: Orochi is quiet, Orochi is still, not on guard or uncomfortable. More every inch a less extroverted, bookish Dynast (and he does seem a Dynast doesn't he? With those rich blue-black scales that lace his skin, every color of the sea at night, edged and gilded in moonlight) out on the town with his louder, bawdier friends. Content to watch them, listen to them talk.  
[2:12 PM] Bian: "Well, darlings, if you need any help, I do know people in this town." She takes another sip. "If you can't find anything, I'd love to help." She smiles at Orochi. "Unlike my morose friend over there."  
[2:12 PM] Coyote: "Much appreciated."

Coyote leans forward, putting his elbows on the table as he observes Orochi. Piercing eyes seem to shine in the moonlight, and he takes a deep breath through his nose as if tasting the man's scent.

"You're one the old goat's get, aren't you."  
[2:15 PM] Curio: Curio, likewise, keeps back and quiet, content to just keep this little cup of hers in her hands, not even drinking, as if the potent smell was enough of an intoxicant for her.  
[2:15 PM] Orochi: Orochi raises his cup in a small, mock toast. A movement of inches, polite and only half-sardonic even as something shifts behind his eyes. Some emotion that Coyote can't quite make out. "A servant to the one and only."  
[2:16 PM] Orochi: He takes a sip, gaze sliding to the side, to the giggly singer who's all but radiating relief. "But ah, you misunderstand me. I'm hardly morose just...contemplative. I never would have thought you would be among our number. Although, I suppose, it does make some sense in hindsight. As such things do."  
[2:16 PM] Wren: "My needs are simple, but standards are high. I simply would like a place to stay, with a nice bed...and maybe a promiscuous man or five." There's something they're leaving out but that's not quite important at the moment.  
[2:17 PM] Coyote: Coyote grunts, and takes a sip of his drink with great care to keep his scraggly white beard from getting in the way.

"He does so enjoy having servants, and twisting people's arms."  
[2:18 PM] Orochi: "He's never had to twist mine," he says mildly.  
[2:18 PM] Bian: Bian's grin sparkles, and she gestures around the smoky room, at the silvery mirrors - so many of them in the shape of a silver smile. Or perhaps a crescent moon, turned on its side. "Dearie me, old snake - perhaps you need to spend less time morosely sitting in corners and come to more parties," she says to Orochi.  
[2:21 PM] Orochi: And he laughs, and it's gentle and refined, and he laughs and it doesn't quite reach his eyes.  
[2:22 PM] Orochi: "Well, with so many of our kin in town, perhaps I will."

  
[2:24 PM] The Rookrook: Something's wrong. The din of the club recedes. The music stops. The building, full of life, holds it breath.

"What? I can't touch the goods!? Do you know who I am? Do you know who the fuck I am?"

It's a man on the floor below, in robes of Dragon Caste fashion. He's arguing with a bouncer and clearly drunk. The singer is cowering behind the bouncer, eyes wide. The bouncer's tough--but he doesn't have the status, the bulk, of the belligerent man.

He's also clearly Dragonblooded. Water Aspect. The bouncers here are good. But they're not that good.

"I'm Cakori Buno of Clan Ophris! I'm with Governor Adlahkta! You can't say no to me! I'm your better, you damned prick--"

He gets further in the bouncer's face with every word. At this rate, someone's going to swing.  
[2:24 PM] Coyote: Coyote sighs into his drink, then sets it down before turning to Bian. "Do you want to handle this, or should I?"  
[2:25 PM] Wren: Wren has mysteriously vanished from the table.  
[2:25 PM] Curio: "Mmm."  
[2:25 PM] Curio: Curio bobs her head.  
[2:25 PM] Curio: "Orochi, dear, if you would..."  
[2:25 PM] Curio: "Or no."  
[2:26 PM] Curio: She bobs her head again - again, there is an implication of an unseen smile.  
[2:28 PM] Curio: She lifts herself from the cushion, still the clickling sounds. Her shawls shift again, color draining off them until they appear nothing like filthy rags, torn shrouds. Something in her posture shifts. In the background, there is sound: many legs skitter.  
[2:29 PM] Bian: Bian rises, dress flicking with an irritable twist. She approaches the balcony, looking out over her club. "My friend," she says, voice chiming out like a bell. "Please, do not let the drinks speak for you. I believe your master wishes to see you tomorrow, and it would be better to go home and sleep things off."  
[2:38 PM] The Rookrook: Cakori Buno squints up at the VIP box. Liquors stain his clothes, making them stick tight to his imposing figure. "Yeah? So what? He can... he can wait, 'cause I'm here right now! Bitch. Who the fuck are you, anyway? You're just some foreigner. Don't tell me what to do." It's like every word he says, he manages to make himself more angry.  
[2:38 PM] The Rookrook: That Bian is right - or so he thinks - just makes him angrier.  
[2:39 PM] The Rookrook: "Are none of you brave enough to make me leave? Huh?"  
[2:41 PM] Orochi: In the background, opposite Coyote, Orochi sips his drink and does not move in the slightest from his seat. Just watching from the corner of his eye as the drama unfurls below.  
[2:41 PM] Bian: "Good sir," Bian says; mild-mannered, playing up her accent, soft-spoken, "I would not presume to tell you what to do. And neither would I offer an esteemed member of Clan Ophris insult."  
[2:42 PM] Curio: Behind Bian, there is Curio.  
[2:42 PM] Curio: A haggard, half-seen shape. From down below, the man may not even be sure if she is real.  
[2:42 PM] Curio: He certainly wouldn't want her to be.  
[2:42 PM] Curio: She says nothing.  
[2:42 PM] Curio: Doesn't have to.  
[2:43 PM] Curio: Her just being there tells her what he needs to know:  
this is not a place to be  
better go  
better leave  
better forget this place exists  
[2:51 PM] The Rookrook: He sees something in that stare. What it is, none can say. But he takes a step back, the bluster cracking. Cakori Buno mutters and curses, face hot, but he turns around and leaves. "I'll remember this!" he yells over his shoulders.

On his way out, Curio and Bian see he grabs a young boy who was handcuffed to the wall. He undoes the cuffs and drags him out.

Slowly the music and atmosphere return.  
[2:52 PM] Wren: Wren slowly climbs out from under the table and back into their seat.  
[2:52 PM] Coyote: "That was nicely done," Coyote says, nodding to Bian. He turns to Curio, nodding again. "You as well."  
[2:53 PM] Coyote: With his left hand he gives Wren a gentle pat on the shoulder, perhaps only slightly uncomfortable since it's made out of metal.  
[2:53 PM] Curio: And then, just like that, all that drains away and Curio is again clad in lively reds and yellows.  
[2:54 PM] Bian: Bian looks over the parapet, her expression unreadable. Then she looks down at the stage. "Well, after that, I think it's time for something a little more fun. Zehuan, hit it!" she calls out to the woman on stage.

Then she slumps down, wrapping her hands around her drink and taking a petulant slurp. "They really are awful," she mutters, loud enough for the others to hear as the music starts up with a lively, jaunty bassline.  
[2:55 PM] Coyote: "Not really living up to the precepts of the Dragons, are they?" The smirk he gives her is so full of bitterness it's a surprise he doesn't choke on it. "Oh, how disappointed the Immaculates must be."  
[3:02 PM] Bian: She flicks back a lock of hair. "I wouldn't really know," she says. "The Dragonblooded act much the same here as they did back in An Teng."  
[3:03 PM] Coyote: "Trust me, it's not much different where I came from."  
[3:04 PM] Wren: Wren was not terribly interested in the conversation, mostly just avoiding angry drunk supernaturally-powered pricks.

The man sounded rich but they weren't sure it was worth, uh, trying to exploit that particular well.  
[3:06 PM] Bian: Bian smiles at Coyote. "Well, everyone, do try not to get too drunk. By my reckoning, we have two hours until we're expected. So please, enjoy yourself. But not so much that you can't stand." She takes another sip of her barely alcoholic fruit cocktail.  
[3:07 PM] Wren: Conspicuously, Wren hasn't had an actual drink. And if they're being honest they uh

They feel drunk just smelling the damn things. Even if that cocktail is probably extremely light.  
[3:08 PM] Coyote: Coyote gives Wren another pat on the shoulder and takes a sip of his drink. "No worries. I'll take care."  
[3:08 PM] Curio: "Mmm" Curio says after a long silence. "What was his name again? Have you heard about him?"  
[3:09 PM] Curio: "Ah, nevermind" she says before he can answer. "Not important."  
[3:09 PM] Wren: Wren glances at Coyote. Then they narrow their eyes. "I am not going to be patronized." They grab the booze and immediately down the entire glass.  
[3:09 PM] Coyote: Coyote blinks as the drink is snatched out of his hand. "Well, all right then."  
[3:09 PM] The Rookrook: ---

Time passes. Fun and rest are had--well, just fun for Wren, who vanishes for that time and comes back looking even more insufferably smug than usual.

The downpour has abated, reduced to a limp drizzle as fog rolls over the city. Multicolor lanterns guide the way, little beacons in the dim. Orochi shows the group the way to Tenepeshu's Lair.

It's a tall and long building guarded by squads of enforces even at this time of night. A repurposed temple to forgotten gods from back before she took over. The group walks past Five Fingers enforcers carrying as many accounting scrolls as drugs, the gangsters grown up into government. They enter a waiting room lined with cushions, complimentary drugs and wine. A woman in black bedecked in bangles and decorative chains sits, back straight, by the far wall. Gangers come and go, all steering clear of the massive, building-sized doors at the other end: the entrance to the inner chamber where Tenepeshu sees guests.

"Tenepeshu is busy finishing a prior meeting," explains a lieutenant. She introduces herself as Blink--she's covered in tattoos, a dusty yellow bandana wrapped around her face, just below her lidless eyes. Her complexion is Ys--she eyes Curio for a heartbeat.

"You'll have to wait briefly. Our apologies."  
[3:11 PM] Curio: "Who was that man again?" Curio leans in to ask Orochi. She honestly can't remember.  
[3:13 PM] Bian: Bian is wearing another face entirely . Indeed, she is a man now; a man from Chiaroscuro, in his early middle years. He's overweight and well-fed, with paunchy features. There are many rings on the man's fingers, covering the pale bands of skin. He has tan skin and salt-and-pepper hair. "This is Tenepeshu, the Five Fingered Dragon," says Bian... sorry, Fawaz ibn Suhr. He rests his hands on his paunch, wrapping his oilskin around his bulky, well-made clothes. He's wearing gloves, and boots.

It's within them all, this trait - but it's quite a surprise to see that the slightly ditzy woman can become this sober, Southern-accented man who holds his place with a stately, dignified posture. She made clear to them that this is a travelling merchant she uses for more... transient communications with others before she assumed that form - and she would be very put out if anyone blew her cover.  
[3:16 PM] Orochi: Orochi makes himself comfortable, seated on a cushion, legs loosely crossed, coat like puddled moonlight around him. He hasn't bothered with a different body. Maybe he's making a statement. Maybe he just doesn't really see the need or the point in expending even such a mild amount of effort.

"Cakori Buno," he says mildly, at home if not necessarily at ease in this place, familiar with it, with its atmosphere even if he's never been in quite this situation, "Sadly emblematic of the current state of the Old Houses but- well. What can you do?"  
[3:17 PM] Bian: The fat man chuckles. "What we can all do when facing the whims of the Dragonblooded, my boy," he says. "Endure and seek to profit."  
[3:18 PM] Wren: Wren hasn't bothered to change out of their normal look as they stare at their blue fingers. Their golden-blue opera glove has slightly slipped exposing, most curiously, a few brown-ish feathers. They quietly slip the thing back down.

They aren't going to abandon this flesh they worked hard to make themself look good this way.

Well, that, and it wasn't as though anyone would recognize them.

Hopefully.

Well probably not it'd been a couple of years. But there was always a chance...  
[3:18 PM] Coyote: Coyote stands to Bian's left and slightly behind, a Southern bodyguard for a Southern merchant. He doesn't even have to change his shape, simply allowing his past to slip through. His hands rest by his belt, but not within the depths of his flowing bisht. Ready to pull weapons in defense of his... "patron," but not overtly hostile.  
[3:19 PM] The Rookrook: "How's my favorite little snake in the water?" a smooth, cocky voice calls.

Blink rolls her eyes, where she leans against the wall. "Dragons, I hate Jangma so much."

A handsome man with cerulean skin swaggers in. He's dressed like a thug, even for this place. Tattoos band his well-muscled arms, and his hair sways in a nonexistent breeze. He flashes a fang-filled grin.

Jangma raises one hand to his head in a lazy salute. "Nice to meet you all, whoever the fuck you are." He winks at Orochi.

The woman in the corner shrinks turns away, shrinking into herself. Visible on her shoulder now is a red-blue patch: she's a noble. There's a low crackling of energy around her, and her form shimmers as if seen through a forest canopy.

3:20 PM] Curio: Orochi's head follows the arc of Jangma's movement. So this is the man- ah, she shouldn't feel envious. But she does. A little.  
[3:20 PM] Orochi: "Jangma," he says politely, utterly untroubled, unfazed, "My associates, whom I've spoken to you about."  
[3:21 PM] Curio: "Has he spoken about me?"  
[3:22 PM] Bian: The fat man chuckles, a belly-shaking laugh. "I'm just here for the money - and to profit from things," he says, lips showing a broad smile, baby-like cheeks crinkled up.  
[3:22 PM] Coyote: Oh, more gods to deal with, Coyote thinks to himself. How wonderful.

None of which he shows on his face, for he was already scowling before Jangma arrived. Instead he simply turns his attention to the looming figure, making it obvious he's ready to interpose himself between him and Bian.  
[3:23 PM] The Rookrook: Jangma twirls his hands in a ostentatious, mocking half-bow. "At your service, except not really."  
[3:23 PM] The Rookrook: "I'd say it's nice to meet you all, but let's not kid ourselves. So I'll just compromise, and remind you that it's nice to meet me."  
[3:23 PM] Coyote: "Think rather highly of yourself."  
[3:23 PM] Curio: Curio pecks her head to the side, a little bit farther than the ordinary neck should allow. Her head makes a clinking sound against her shoulder.  
[3:23 PM] Curio: "Ohhhhhhhhh?"  
[3:24 PM] Curio: "Are you nice? Orochi made you sound nice."  
[3:24 PM] Wren: Wren's eyes trace up Jengma's arms, to the tattoos, to the hair.

And Wren immediately wondered if they fucked him before. Probably not. Hopefully not. If he knew who they were he could probably twist them into a pretzel with those thick powerful gorgeous arms.

Then Curio asks their question and they're knocked out of their thoughts and into a giggle.  
[3:25 PM] The Rookrook: "Would Orochi lie to you?" Jangma says sweetly. He crosses his arms and puffs out his chest.

Blink makes a gagging noise.  
[3:25 PM] Bian: Fawaz ibn Suhr breaks into outright laughter. "Oh, by the glass towers, I like you - sir, I like you!" he says to the man. "Quite the wit!" He wipes his eyes, handkerchief in his gloved hands.  
[3:26 PM] Curio: "Would you want to know? Would you want to know what he tells me that he doesn't tell you?"

Light reflects off the polished surface of Curio's face; a silver line cut where a smirk would be.  
[3:27 PM] Orochi: The corner of Orochi's mouth faintly twitches, the man catching the monsoon god's eye. He is...tired. It's hard for most to tell, obscured as it is beneath his mask, the carefully constructed facade but Jangma knows the look. He knows the expression. And, really, meeting the rest of the Silver Pact delegation in person is putting quite a lot of things in  
[3:27 PM] Orochi: Well.  
[3:27 PM] Orochi: Context.  
[3:29 PM] Orochi: No wonder Orochi was in such a state (mildly flustered, even somewhat off balance) that afternoon after he got the letter. A regal white bird plunging through the window, turning into an almost haggard man with a haunted look in his eyes. Telling Jangma that There Was A Problem.  
[3:31 PM] Curio: Meanwhile, Curio does not care about any of that. But this Jangma man - ah, this Jangma man. So many stories from Orochi. It is not that she is posessive about him: but she is curious to see how solid is that man. She snaps her head back, still looking straight at him, making sure he is aware of her unblinking, eyeless attention.  
[3:33 PM] Curio: She flicks her fingers once, twice and a few motes of silver dust - unnoticable, unless you are looking at the precise moment, precise second, surround her.

[3:34 PM] Curio: She glistens, showing miniscule cracks in her shell to Jangma, so that he can see the faultlines, imagine how it would feel to crack open carpace, see what is inside, find the secret behind the hard veil. Vain main, curious man, soon to be obsessed man.  
[3:40 PM] Curio: dream about cracking open the shell  
dream about me  
[3:42 PM] The Rookrook: Something in Jangma's expression flickers. "What was your name?" he asks, gray eyes shimmering. "Curio, right?"  
[3:43 PM] Curio: She again bobs her head, as if nodding, then turns away. No need for further attention.  
[3:46 PM] The Rookrook: "Hhhm. I'll remember that." Jangma rolls his shoulders, then looks at Orochi. "Well, I'm always happy to see your handsome face, but I got business to attend to. I'll catch you later~" He struts off.

When he's gone, the noble in the corner speaks in a droll monotone: "Good job. I almost didn't notice what you did." She hasn't looked up from her book.  
[3:47 PM] Wren: "Who the what? I didn't do anything."

"This time" goes unsaid.  
[3:48 PM] Coyote: Coyote rubs at his nose, his brow furrowing as the scent seems to dig into his skull. He glances at Curio, saying nothing but the expression on his face revealing volumes. Mostly what is conveyed is "Really?" and "Gods damn."  
[3:49 PM] Curio: "Why, thank you" Curio says, stretching her limbs, or at least as far as the articulated porcelian plates will allow her. "It's just a small game."  
[3:49 PM] Bian: "I'm sorry, did something happen?" asks Fawaz ibn Suhr, blinking.  
[3:49 PM] Wren: "What she do?"  
[3:50 PM] Wren: "Did she do a thing?"  
[3:50 PM] Curio: "Did I do anything? I just catch attention sometimes."  
[3:50 PM] Coyote: "Right," Coyote drawls, rubbing at his nose again. "I'm sure."  
[3:53 PM] The Rookrook: "Your friend here used something on that gangster to make him more interested." The book snaps shut, and she looks up with bright green eyes in a handsome face. "It was subtle, but not subtle enough. I don't really care what you do. I don't like it, but I don't have to. My name is Isi Nagara, and I'm stuck in this shithole waiting room too."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just disrespect Tenepeshu's hospitality," Blink drawls, "and just leave you... wonderful people to have fun." She stomps away, leaving the group alone with the noblewoman.  
[3:54 PM] The Rookrook: Isi waves sarcastically as she leaves and then makes a rude, juvenile gesture. She can't be more than twenty summers.  
[3:56 PM] Coyote: Coyote nods his head to Isi. "A pleasure."  
[3:56 PM] Bian: The fat man inhales, directing a glance at Curio that reveals very little.  
[3:56 PM] Curio: Curio waves her arms. It's nothing to be done.  
[4:00 PM] The Rookrook: Isi shrugs. "For all the drugs and whores" - her eyes drift to Wren- "there's not that much pleasure here. Especially not for people like me." She sighs, and adds, "I'm just here because I want Tenepeshu to not treat us all like shit. She sits behind her big doors and what? We all have to petition some jumped up snake? I just hope we can work out an accord before there's violence."

She pauses, a lock of black hair falling over one eye. "Aaand I should not be telling you this. Whoops."  
[4:01 PM] Wren: "Hey, I'm hardly a common whore."  
[4:02 PM] Curio: "Then why stay?" Curio asks, for once genuinely curious. "Why not leave, move somewhere where you are not burdened by all that? The city shouldn't bind you down."  
[4:04 PM] Bian: Fawaz isn't saying much - an avuncular fat man is easy to underestimate. He's watching Isi, though. Watching her.  
[4:05 PM] The Rookrook: "It's a good question," the noblewoman mutters. She traces her fingers down the spine of her book - it's black, tightly bound over thick pages. When she sees Bian - Fawaz - watching her, she moves to slide it out of sight.  
[4:05 PM] Wren: Wren doesn't respond to the comment about leaving Champoor. Especially given that was...well, why they took the first chance they had to get the hell out.

Only to come back in. There was probably a proverb about thinking you're out and being pulled back in.  
[4:05 PM] Wren: They wouldn't know it.  
[4:07 PM] Coyote: There is a grunt, soft but noticeable, from Coyote's lips. He gives Isi a closer look, noticing just how young she is and how... weathered. His scowl fades into a small, sad smile.

"Sometimes it's not that easy," Coyote says, though to Curio or Isi is anyone's guess. "Sometimes you don't have any good options."  
[4:08 PM] Curio: "Make them, then. Don't let it burden you" Curio shrugs his wisdom off.  
[4:09 PM] Coyote: "Oh yes, just make them," Coyote says with a snort, glancing toward her. "And if you're left starving and sick out in the wilds? What then?"  
[4:10 PM] Curio: "Bite through stone" Curio's tone changes not a iota. "Or die."  
[4:10 PM] The Rookrook: Bian eyes up the silent young woman. She just shut her tome, but she herself is an open book.

She's Dragonblooded. A Wood Aspect, intelligent and with bad self-control, that has issues with authority. But not like rebellion--like lack of trust. Like anxiety over power, and anxiety over conflict. She doesn't want to be here, but she's horribly scared of things going wrong. She's eager for the doors to open. She's scared of them opening.

From her jewelry and the tome at her side, she appears to be some kind of sorcerer. And not a bad one, either.

Before Bian can act on this information, though, the doors slam open and out walks a man familiar to Orochi, if only by reputation. A man with great, sucking burnscars around his eyes, faintly luminescent--Wyld-magic in origin. The Firefly. Kori Nagara. An Air Aspect necromancer with a legendarily bad temper.

Isi jumps to her feet. "Hello, Father," she says deferentially.

"Shut up," he growls. The two walk out--and the Firefly looks right at Orochi.  
[4:16 PM] The Rookrook: He walks out, daughter behind.

A few guards come into the room, led by Blink, now that the doors are open, taking positions - nonthreatening of course - without being prompted.

A huge face slithers forward from the pitch blackness behind the doors. A broad, flat head. Eyes like jewels lost in the tide. Teeth the size of a human's head. Bedecked in scented oils. The guards kneel.

"Hello, moonchildren," comes Tenepeshu's low hiss. "What do you think of my city?"  
[4:17 PM] Coyote: "It reeks," Coyote says, looking up into that giant face. He settles his hands once more on his belt, his eyes flashing strangely in the light as he matches his gaze with that of the deity. "And it's falling apart."  
[4:19 PM] Bian: The fat man whose face Bian is wearing smiles politely. "It's a rare city, with few like it in Creation," the pretend merchant says. "It has its highs, it has its lows - and it has the chance for profit. Something perhaps we can all enjoy, in this world where the Realm is sick and scattered remnants. But of course, that's what you expect to hear from us, isn't it?"  
[4:20 PM] Wren: "Well I have lived in this city for a long, long while so I should just say it's exactly as I remember."

Wren offers a smile. A clearly fake one but it's definitely a smile.  
[4:22 PM] The Rookrook: The clouds roll past the high windows in the back of Tenepeshu's chamber, lighting her from behind. She is massive, almost as big as the room she's contained in. A statue of her likeness looms above her. Rain lashes the building, increasing in intensity.

"Ha. You. I like you," she says to Coyote.

There's a creaking sound, and her head swings around to Wren.

"And it has been a long time apart for you, eh?" She sticks out her tongue, and it writhes in the air in front of Wren. "You bear the smell of your elders. Hrn....

"You are none for wasting time, I see. Good. Then tell me, little ones. Do you think I control this city, in truth? Or does your Pact doubt me?"  
[4:28 PM] Bian: The fat man inclines his head. "The question of control is... complicated. A wise man once said; 'true power over a thing is the power to destroy it'. If so, you have true power over this city. Without the gifts of water you and your court provide, it would be," he gestures blowing onto his hand, "dispersed, like sand on the wind. Can you give orders to the houses? Perhaps. We cannot pretend to know how far your influence reaches - but you could deny them much that they rely on and for that reason they will listen to you. But it is the way of our people in the glass city to know that suggestions often have more power than orders, and a wise man knows this."  
[4:29 PM] The Rookrook: If Tenepeshu had lips, you think she would smile. "Very good." Again that creaking noise.  
[4:29 PM] Curio: Curio hangs in the back of the conversation, not even sure if she should be interested. Politics are not her game.  
[4:31 PM] The Rookrook: "Indeed, often I have thought that the only true measure of power over something, is the power to destroy it. Thus is my difficulty. I have tried for so long to do more than destroy. To build. And yet... it is not easy." Wind hisses through her fangs, something like a sigh.

"And so--"

The creaking rises into a grating, metallic shriek and a rumble. The statue of Tenepeshu behind her leans forward. Tenepeshu the serpent twists to move, but the doors are not very wide.  
[4:33 PM] Bian: The fat man is surprisingly fast on his feet. Of course he is. There's a much slimmer and more agile woman in there in truth.  
[4:39 PM] Coyote: Coyote bends his legs and launches himself backwards to the other end of the room with speed and grace less like a human being and more like a four legged beast bounding away from an arrow.  
[4:42 PM] Wren: Wren swiftly slides out of the way, their body quickly twisting out of the way. Their golden shoes twist into the ground as they do a tumble then a flip out of the way of where they believe the statue will fall.  
[4:53 PM] The Rookrook: The statue comes down. The Exalted all move clear, save Curio, who will take it on her mighty shoulders and so doesn't even try to move. Tenepeshu tries to twist out of the way, but her head gets stuck. There's screaming. Her head explodes in a gush of rainwater and blue blood and washes into the room.

The statue keeps going and crushes Curio with its immense weight, driving her feet through the floor. But she does not move. She sees where the statue grinded Tenepeshu into the floor. Sees the eyes rolling around, great jellied orbs.

People pour into the waiting room. There's so much screaming. The nobles have been dragged back in. There's screaming. The gangsters blame them. They blame the Prasadi. Nobody moves to help Curio.  
[4:57 PM] Bian: The fat man is doubled over, panting. He looks up, sees the mess that was made of the mighty elemental mafia princess and sags down, panting heavily. The room doesn't smell of blood. It smells of the docks, of stagnant water, of the mires at the bottom of the city.

But why would that statue fall - so suddenly, without warning?  
[4:58 PM] Curio: Curio just stands there. In a way, she looks like a statue now, an element of an art installation. Porcelian, stone, guts. In a way, she makes it look beautiful to look at, if a little bit gory, if a little bit abstract.  
[4:59 PM] Curio: But even she gets tired eventually. The wisps of her anima swirl, and she hews the statue to the side, then gently puts it down, fingers like claws biting straight into stone. As she said to Coyote one should.  
[5:01 PM] Bian: "Oh, are you hurt?" He looks at Curio. "That was... impressive. I certainly couldn't do that." But even as he says his patter, his eyes are watching the gangers, the statue, looking for who's not surprised, who's moving to take advantage of this - where the power is falling.  
[5:02 PM] Wren: It's surprising how much force brain matter has when it's being ejected from the head of a gigantic snake. More specifically, brain matter, juice of some sort, blue blood (they would find this more amusing if it wasn't so goddamn nasty, and they're promptly forced against the wall by the suden ejection of brain meats.

Their back slams against the wall, their body is covered in blue jam, and lord this is not what they were expecting today.

They grimace as heavily as they possibly can, shake their hands, and instinctively try to wipe it off of their face.

This just spreads it over their own face. They just sigh.  
[5:03 PM] Curio: Curio just shakes her head.  
[5:05 PM] Coyote: "Everyone shut up!" Coyote roars, his voice echoing across the space like a howl against the moon. "Last thing we need is you idiots killing each other when there's been a gods damned murder!"  
[5:10 PM] Wren: Wren shakes their hands again in an attempt to get the blood off. Tepeneshu blood. From the giant watersnake. The big important snake.

Oh right that snake was important and not just scary. They should probably feel something about this.  
[5:13 PM] The Rookrook: Bian scans the crowd. Everyone is shocked or angry, sickened or grieving. She sees Jangma from earlier. He looks shocked, and faintly disgusted. But he can't keep the giddy grin entirely off his face.

The crowd quiets down at Coyote's command. But it's still simmering. Jangma explodes into a burst of stormclouds that take shape as a floating serpent. "Alright, alright! Listen up! Someone - MAYBE someone here - just axed Tenepeshu. That means none of you are beyond suspicion."

The gangsters don't say a word. Neither do the two nobles--they simply blanch.

I'm taking over as acting leader for now, until we get to the bottom of this. We got a lotta ennemies, so we're gonna have to be real, real thorough..."

"And what if it was you?" Blink asks. "Are you beyond suspicion? Huh?

There's a murmur of assent among the gangsters. It's a fair point.

Jangma can read them room. He can't deny this.

"Well, somebody's gotta lead the investigation!"

Wren and Bian see a flicker as lightning flashes. A face illuminated, battered and weary, and wide-eyed. Frozen in horror on top of the skylight of Tenepeshu's room. The boy from before.

He makes eye contact with Bian and runs.  
[5:15 PM] Wren: Wren wipes their face again, their head moves up just in time to see a boy. Their eyes squint. "Wait...wait is there a boy up there? That's a boy up there!" They point to skylight. "Little, scrawny-"  
[5:15 PM] Bian: "Up there!"  
[5:19 PM] Bian: The fat man throws his arms out, his whole shape turning into a glowing white silhouette. It collapses down, folding in on itself in shifting silvers and blues before the light vanishes and what remains in its place is a tan-and-white bird. With a shrill screech, the bird launches itself upwards, heading for the open skylight.  
[5:20 PM] Coyote: Coyote turns, eyes moving across the skylight to find what everyone else was pointing to. He could just see the boy's clothing trail behind as he ran away, and with a wrenching motion threw his left arm back before throwing it forward. It stretched and flew through the air, careening toward the ceiling.  
[5:23 PM] Coyote: His hand latches onto one of the bars and pulls himself forward, flying across the space as if launched from a catapult and smashing through the skylight.  
[5:24 PM] Bian: Through the sparkling glass, the bird makes its appearance, keen eyes cutting through the night.

\---

The rain comes down like knives. It's hard to see anything in the fog, but Coyote and Bian have sharp senses. They get up to the flat roof and look out over the sheer drop, and there's nobody there--which is strange. He can't have gone far.  
[5:25 PM] Bian: Bian cuts up vertically, pulling up to get a proper sight over the city. Her keen eyes are looking as she circles.  
[5:27 PM] The Rookrook: It's a sheer drop, and Bian's raptor eyes see him instantly. A little boy who tried to jump the height of three grown men, and succeeded. Now he has a leg broken in two places, and he's crying pitifully, on a slope of the building in a little nook. He must have been brave to jump. Brave, or desperate.  
[5:27 PM] The Rookrook: Bian can see the cuff marks and the bruises. He's shivering--near hypothermic.  
[5:28 PM] Coyote: Coyote lands in a crouch, following the bird that is Bian and the sounds of crying over the storm. Slowly, ever so carefully, he makes his way to the child while the wind and rain whips at him.  
[5:30 PM] Bian: She drops like a rock, plummeting down. Even as she falls, she's glowing blue-white, and she touches down in a crouch, one hand out to steady herself. She's the woman this time, and her other hand immediately goes out to grab the child's wrist. To stop him trying to run and falling off, if nothing else.

She glances back to Coyote. "What did you see?" she asks, softly. "Tell me the truth, and you were never here, never caught. Lie to me, and I will know."  
[5:31 PM] The Rookrook: "Y-you--you're the woman from earlier." He looks up with vulnerable eyes. He can't be more than twelve summers--and he looks younger than those with his fat cheeks and soft hands.  
[5:31 PM] Coyote: "We're not going to hurt you," Coyote says, approaching slowly with his hands open. "We just need some answers and then we'll get you some help."  
[5:33 PM] Bian: "Yes, I am." Bian's eyes recognise the boy - and put things together. Yes. She knows how to approach this. "You don't like Cakori Buno. I don't like him either. You can trust me on that."  
[5:35 PM] The Rookrook: He's scared. That much is obvious. But he clenches his jaw tight, and for a moment the shivering stops. His eyes are vulnerable, yes, but there's a hardness there. "My name is Sinla Adlahkta, son of Governor Adlahkta. And you got up here f-f-fast."  
[5:37 PM] Coyote: Coyote blinks, but doesn't say anything. The look he shares with Bian aptly expresses his utter confusion, however. Along with the obvious question of "What the hell was a governor's son doing chained to a wall?"  
[5:37 PM] Bian: That's quite a claim, here on the roof where the rain is slashing down. Enough that Bian takes a double-take, eyes narrowing.  
[5:38 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla smiles a knowing smile.  
[5:40 PM] The Rookrook: "I c-came here," he says with a confidence Bian knows he doesn't feel, "to g-get away. F-from Buno. T-to see Tenep-peshu. I s-s-saw something. But I want to s-see and t-talk to your friends. A-all of them. We can make a deal."  
[5:41 PM] The Rookrook: He has something in mind. Bian can't tell what it is - but it's big enough he'd poke an Exalted in the face for it, and stipulate terms. He's terrified out of his mind, but he's not stupid. Just desperate.  
[5:41 PM] The Rookrook: If Bian says no, he'll probably start crying again.  
[5:45 PM] Bian: Bian looks directly at Coyote. "I'm not sure we want to take him down to them," she says, musing to herself. "Perhaps it might be more sensible for you to carry him away, when I tell you that they're giving chase. If there's someone down there who thinks there's a witness, they might want to..." she glances down at the boy, "... clean things up. Which we don't want. But if they don't know if we have him, we can buy some time."  
[5:46 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla blanches at Bian's allusion to murder. He bobs his head up and down in agreement.  
[5:46 PM] Coyote: Coyote scowls. "He's going to die at this rate... Maybe I could hop the rooftops and get him back to your bar?"  
[5:48 PM] Bian: She considers this. "Not there directly - too many witnesses. But if you enter by the roof of the building opposite it, I own the upper floor. Tell the man at the door 'She laughs when madness comes'. There'll be somewhere safe out of the rain."  
[5:48 PM] Coyote: "All right," Coyote says, taking off his bisht. "Sinla, I'm going to wrap you up in this to keep you warm and out of the rain. Hold on to my neck and don't let go."  
[5:48 PM] The Rookrook: He clings limply against Coyote, weighing nothing at all.  
[5:50 PM] Bian: Bian rises, shaking out her hair and running her fingers through it. Her fashionable curls are gone, washed away in the rain. "Very well." She turns back into the bird in a flash of light, and takes to the skies again.  
[5:54 PM] Coyote: Coyote launches his arm forward again, stretching to the next roof top, holding Sinla close as he careens forward at frightening velocities before landing gently on his feet in a splash of water. Then he takes off running to the edge for the next roof and does it again, and again...

If any were to look up while the rain poured down and the lightning flashed, they might see the silhouette of a man leaping impossible distances across the rooftops deeper into the city as the rain lashes at him like knives. And, if they were perceptive enough, they might see the tiny, shivering bundle in its arms holding tightly around his neck.

But, thankfully, few would ever look toward the skies on a night like this. Fewer still would be able to see, and so the man who called himself Coyote Among Bulls tore through the rain with the life of a child in his hands.

\---

  
[5:39 PM] Curio: Curio still stands in the room, now abandoned. After a while, she clambers on top of the statue, finds a mostly gore-free spot, and just perches herself there- not unlike a cat.  
[5:45 PM] The Rookrook: Everyone is looking at everyone else. The tension is palpable. After the two Lunars leave, it only ratchets up.

"You realize," Jangma hisses at the Nagara, "if it turns out one of you did this, we're gonna fuckin' burn your houses down and run you outta town?"

"We're not so stupid," says the Firefly. "But you're welcome to try and see how it goes for you."  
[5:47 PM] Curio: Curio observes the argument with idle interest, one articulated leg swingly like a pendulum from her perch on the fallen statue.  
[5:52 PM] Wren: Wren finally wipes more blood off their face. They flex their hand, and realize that the room is still full of people who are terrified and pissed off. And then they realize that there are people there that will probably be wanting answers.

And then...well...they were at ground zero.

So what better to do then-

"Hey, hey!" They slide into view, across the blood-spattered ground. They quickly brush themself off as much as they can witht he blue blood on their body, before they quickly strike a pose in front of the crowd. There's a quick dance. They slide across the ground, their feet jiggle and dance, their loincloth sways in the wind and they run a hand up their thigh before they slap their own ass with a thunderous clap.

It's hardly appropriate. Even they know that. But what it does is catch the attention of everyone in the room.

"Okay so for all those in the room, we were here when the atrocity happened!" They point to the statue, then realizing that they were pointing right at Curio, they instead move down to the corpse of the giant watersnake. That would probably be slightly more appropriate.

"How about, we, the ones who were right here, handle the investigation? We saw it first-hand! And we are capable, brilliant-" they search for the words for a second, before settling on "-scholars!" A lie but they can play it off. "And we can investigate, uh, this."  
[5:59 PM] The Rookrook: Nobody says anything, until a random gangster says, "Are you a boy or a girl?"

He gets slapped upside the head by Jangma. "Shut it."

"We would... consider this...." says the noble. He eyes Wren like a particularly distasteful bug caught in one's teeth.

The rank and file seem open to the idea. The lieutenants, not so much. "We don't know you," Blink says. "And that means we don't trust you."  
[5:59 PM] Wren: "Yes!" Wren shouts back.  
[6:00 PM] Curio: Curio appreciataes that snark. From her perch, she gives Wren a few clinking claps to encourage them.  
[6:12 PM] Orochi: "Ah," says a soft voice from the back of the small crowd of Lunars, "But you do know me, don't you?"

Heads turn, feet shift, it was so easy to forget he was here. The way he was so quiet, the way he was all but silent: not a scream, not a single muffled sound as Tenepeshu died. Not a single noise as Wren committed their own personal atrocity. The way his face was still, perfectly composed, faint smile frozen in place as clockworks and gears ticked within his skull. Thinking for long, long, seconds, dead to the whole world.

But he's back now.

This is Orochi: no longer immaculate, no longer pristine. Sleeves soaked in blood, shaken back to the crook of his elbow. Hem of his coat, his pants, splattered in azure. Drenched in stagnant water and a god's gore and making no move to clean himself up. The mask is gone now, the mask is fallen to the floor, shattered in a thousand pieces and oh how you wish, how you all wish it was back. Because there's nothing there now, nothing at all. An emptiness. A profound absence of anything in a room full of emotion, the cold indifference of an empty sky.  
[6:12 PM] Orochi: No stars.  
[6:13 PM] Orochi: No moon.  
[6:15 PM] Orochi: There is a seal on his brow, a hollow void ringed in silver. There are shadows around him, the night air deepening into something almost solid, the silhouette of something coiling-vast and many-headed, mantled in argent light. Just enough of a glow to have an impression of its vastness. Of its fractured anatomy. Fine Dynast's scales seem to all but ripple, the surface of a placid pool disturbed by a cast stone.  
[6:15 PM] Orochi: He talks.  
[6:15 PM] Orochi: They listen.  
[6:15 PM] Orochi: And watch as one by one the snakes slide free from his flesh, blue and black and fanged (the ocean at night). Softly hissing, jaws yawning wide as they unravel and stretch.  
[6:17 PM] Orochi: "Tenepeshu was the anchoring authority of this city. With her death we all stand on the brink of anarchy."  
[6:17 PM] Orochi: "Prasad. The Realm. They would see this place ravaged, either broken and kneeling or simply broken, if it would deny Champoor's providence, its power to their enemies."  
[6:17 PM] Orochi: "Hah."  
[6:18 PM] Orochi: "Even the common people here, once they knew the terrible storm-goddess was gone- how many would rise up, seize their chance? Your flesh is rich. This place is full of the starving."  
[6:18 PM] Orochi: "We are not the ideal solution. But we are all that you have."  
[6:20 PM] The Rookrook: Nobody voices an objection. Nobody moves a muscle.

Jangma gives a little clap. "We look forward to your answers."  
[6:24 PM] The Rookrook: ---

They regroup in Bian's club, in a back room with thick curtains that occlude the windows and soft carpet that dampens sound. Orochi's talon-captains wait outside for orders, Bian's people not wanting to let them in, but not willing to tell them no either. The ball is in her park but it most definitely won't stay there.

Sinla Adlahkta is alive, though frostbite pocks his hands. Great ugly bruises mottle his face. He stands before the new Circle with his back straight.

"I saw something," he says in a thin, high voice. "I will tell you what it is, and it will be useful." He looks all of you in the eye, one by one. "But you will do something for me."  
[6:24 PM] Curio: Curio, for now, is not getting - although soon she will - that she is about to get Massively Involved.  
[6:25 PM] Wren: Wren is staring at the carpet as they slowly, slowly realize exactly what they're getting into.

It's not done sinking in fully, but oh, oh no, it's definitely starting to drill its way into their thick skull.  
[6:26 PM] Bian: Bian sits there in her seat, brushing her hair as she tries to fix up her appearance from the rain. "I'm listening," she says, nails glinting in the lantern light.  
[6:27 PM] Coyote: Coyote stood by the wall, dripping onto the floor. His bisht hung on the back of a chair, also creating a small puddle. His arms were crossed, the barest shimmer of his moonsilver shining through the sleeves of his kaftan.  
[6:28 PM] Orochi: Orochi's clothes are clotted stiff, soaked in sapphire. A long streak, a splatter of blue across one cheek. Eyeing the child with measured consideration. Politely pretending he doesn't see the looks the others give him, now and then.  
[6:29 PM] Orochi: Everyone pretending that there aren't men and women standing silently in the rain in oilskins, eyes staring, all but unblinkingly at the front door to the Lady's Smile. Waiting patiently.  
[6:29 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla swallows. "Y-you will keep Cakori Buno away from me. And. And." He steels himself.

"Kill the Governor, and I will help you." He clenches his fists.

"Help me kill my father.

"And I will help you."  
[6:29 PM] The Rookrook: ---


	3. Beating of Hideous Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orochi and Curio have a heart to heart. After "Gathering Storm".

  
The off-white limewash is chipped and flaked on the exterior walls of the clinic, like a snake yet to fully shed its skin. Cold blue light washes through slitted windows over veined soapstone floors spotted with medical supplies, and fine, dark carpets and tables. The effect is like being in a beautiful underwater cave--aesthetically impeccable and comforting only to those without warm blood.

Outside the clinic's front doors the riotously diverse crowds ebb and flow, some brave souls forgoing even hoods as they walk through the misty pre-dawn to the bazaars and to the docks, the sound a dully throbbing ambiance for the lifeless clinic.

Well. Mostly lifeless.  
[8:11 PM] Orochi: It took something like an hour of scrubbing to get all the blood off, to wash the azure from his long black hair and clean the clotted cerulean from beneath his nails. And he's sitting here now, in long, loose robes and simple sandals. Tired, smelling faintly of citrus and clean linen, drinking a glass of crystalline clear, cold water. Looking somewhere between idly indulgent and faintly frustrated as he watches the porcelain skinned woman wander around the clinic.  
[8:12 PM] Orochi: "You have some Tenepeshu on your shawl" he says after a moment.  
[8:13 PM] Curio: "I don't, actually" Curio says with a shrug and her shawl dissolves into ambient moonlight, as if it was never there, leaving her body bare. It's pristine, as it always is, a porcelain mannikin in motion, crafted by the most adept hand.  
[8:13 PM] Curio: She seats herself on one of the tables, soles clinking quietly against each another.  
[8:13 PM] Curio: "So I think someone died?"  
[8:16 PM] Orochi: "Mhm," he says as he takes another sip, feeling the coldness the chill roll down his throat, feel it take at least a little of the edge off the oncoming headache, "Possibly the most important person in the city. And we spent an appreciable fraction of the night standing in her brains."  
[8:17 PM] Curio: Her head follows his cup slowly, as if her unseen eyes were locked onto it. There's something bird-like in that. Or maybe insectile? It's never easy to tell with her.  
[8:17 PM] Curio: "Ah. I wasn't paying attention. Was that planned?"  
[8:19 PM] Orochi: "Not by me," he says mildly.  
[8:19 PM] Orochi: "Which is...troubling."  
[8:21 PM] Curio: "Ohhhhh" Curio says, impressed. "Do you know that this Jangma... Jagma... whatever his name is... he is very handsome?"  
[8:23 PM] Orochi: He catches the blank milky-white ceramic where her eyes should be, the faintest impression of sockets, shaped and sculpted and seemingly indistinguishable from the surrounding tissue. Sighs and puts down his glass. "Curio," and it's that Tone. That almost tutor-ly tone, that weary instructor who isn't being paid quite enough to put up with a nobleman's child ton, that you'll-need-to-remember-this-it'll-be-on-your-examination tone.

Some people raise their voices when they're irritated. Some people lace their words with barbs and disdain. Some people mask it all, bury it deep and let it fester in the pit of their stomachs.  
[8:24 PM] Orochi: Orochi just seems to press ink and paper into your hands and stare at you until you start to grudgingly take notes.  
[8:24 PM] Curio: "Isn't he?"  
[8:26 PM] Orochi: "Please don't try to seduce my-" a pause, a hairline fracture, as he searches for the right word, settling on a half-truth "friend into one of your games. Especially considering we're investigating the death of his mother."  
[8:26 PM] Curio: "We are?" here, there would be a blink.  
[8:26 PM] Curio: But the face is blank.  
[8:26 PM] Orochi: "We are."  
[8:26 PM] Curio: "Ohhhhhh."  
[8:28 PM] Orochi: He sighs softly and sets the glass down, combing crooked fingers through his hair, "Champoor is teetering on the brink. News of Tenepeshu's death isn't going to stay suppressed forever and once the people know we're going to be looking at-"  
[8:28 PM] Orochi: "Well. Riots. Civil strife. Near anarchy in parts of the city. And then there's the question of what happens to the Five Fingers without their leader, what her lieutenants choose to do. And then there's the separate but related question of what will happen to her warchest."  
[8:29 PM] Curio: "And you-" now, there would be a frown. But the face is blank. "You won't board a ship and leave."  
[8:30 PM] Orochi: "No," he says gently, "I will not."  
[8:31 PM] Curio: "This is the problem with you, you know" Curio snaps, and for the first time today, her voice sounds focused.  
[8:31 PM] Curio: "Chains, there are always chains on you. Stay here. Do this. Care about all that happens... you know how vast Creation is?"  
[8:32 PM] Curio: "I am told if a man was to walk from one end to another, day after day, as if there was nothing else for him in life, he would not have enough days in him to see his journey to the end."  
[8:32 PM] Curio: "And you- you want to stay. When all that bad stuff is happening, you want to stay" she shakes her head. "Madness."  
[8:34 PM] Orochi: "Call it an indulgence on my part then," he says and there's something sharp in his tone there, a half-smile that doesn't have any actual warmth to it, "I've done my share of walking. Even if my shahan-ya hadn't charged me with seeing it through I would stay regardless. This place is my-"  
[8:34 PM] Orochi: "...Hah."  
[8:34 PM] Orochi: "Home."  
[8:34 PM] Orochi: "I suppose it is my home."  
[8:35 PM] Curio: click  
[8:35 PM] Curio: The sound is brilliant, two crystal glasses striking each another.  
[8:35 PM] Curio: Curio straightens.  
[8:35 PM] Curio: "Home?" she asks. "Everyone mentions it, and I am not even sure what that is supposed to mean."  
[8:36 PM] The Rookrook: Rain washing. Bugs chittering. People thronging. The sounds of a city stirring to life.

Just another morning in Champoor.

[8:41 PM] Orochi: "Hrm...home is-" the trace of venom fades, the man just contemplative now as he sinks back into his chair. Eyeing the condensation beading on the glass, the cold, clear contents. "Hah, how troublesome. I suppose at its simplest home is the place where you feel like you belong. And I belong here. I'm..."  
[8:41 PM] Orochi: He searches for the word.  
[8:41 PM] Orochi: "...Content. Here."  
[8:42 PM] Curio: For a moment, Curio is so still that one could believe her to be inanimate, a strange statue in an inappropriate place.  
[8:42 PM] Curio: "But I belong everywhere" she says finally, slowly.  
[8:43 PM] Curio: "Why can't you? You can. You are like me. You can walk Creation as if it is yours."  
[8:46 PM] Orochi: "I could," he replies, "But I feel no desire to. Maybe I will, years from now. Maybe I will not. But for now this place, this city, is all I want."  
[8:47 PM] Orochi: He tilts his head, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, his smile a sly thing now but...warmer still, despite that. "You know if you want to leave you're more than welcome to."  
[8:47 PM] Orochi: "I could hardly begrudge you that."  
[8:47 PM] Orochi: "And there'd be no ill feelings, especially with, ah, so many 'bad things' on the horizon."  
[8:49 PM] Curio: Curio remains frozen - it's rare for her to stay motionless that long.  
[8:50 PM] Curio: "I..." she says, then claps her hands. The high-pitched sounds takes a moment to reveberate through the clinic. "I don't want to! Oh, this is so bizzare."  
[8:50 PM] Curio: "You - you people - are all so strange. One would have thought you trees, with roots you sink into the soil so that you can't move, and with all the things that you have that you will not release. Like that Jager man. Jaguar man? The handsome one."  
[8:51 PM] Orochi: Orochi rolls his eyes a little, but there's no real heat to it, "Jangma."  
[8:51 PM] Curio: "Names!"  
[8:52 PM] Curio: "You know I'm Mayfly? I'm Three-Wisdoms-Crowned! I'm the Eidolon! You too. You can be all that things. But you fix yourself to the place, to people... to..." she pauses. "But I want to stay with you."  
[8:52 PM] Curio: Something in her voice grates.  
[8:54 PM] Orochi: Orochi sits for a little while in the darkness and the quiet of his facade clinic. Before his facade office. Below his facade home. Everything here fake and for show, illustration and detail rather than part of a living, breathing life. But there's nothing but sincerity in his voice when he says, "I."  
[8:54 PM] Orochi: "Am very glad to hear that."  
[8:55 PM] Curio: "But I didn't...." Curio pecks her head again. "I didn't do to you what I do to others."  
[8:57 PM] Orochi: "You didn't have to."  
[8:58 PM] Orochi: "You, Curio, are a very strange, rare creature. The rest of them change skins, change faces, adopt and discard a dozen different lies as it suits them. But you? You are everything that you are and nothing that you are not."  
[8:59 PM] Orochi: "It's..."  
[8:59 PM] Orochi: "Refreshing, I think. Intriguing. To know someone like that."  
[9:00 PM] Curio: And then, suddenly, there is motion.  
[9:01 PM] Curio: It's always strange watching Curio move: it's almost like a human, but never quite. There is a stiffness to the joints, or loosness to them. Her motions are limited - but then suddenly they are beyond the capacity of sinew and tendon. She jumps down from the table, and straightens.

"No" she says, and there is an anxious note to it. "I don't want to think about it."  
[9:01 PM] Curio: And just like that, she is gone into the streets.


	4. Inhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second 'full session'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied sexual abuse, violence

[2:32 PM] The Rookrook: ((Episode 2 - Inhale))

The way the boy tells it, it's very simple. Governor Adlahkta is not a good man. He is cruel, and he is petty, and is agitating for Kamthahar to send troops to crush Champoor into obedience. Chaos would erupt. Thousands would die. And the city that Sinla loves would be ravaged. So really, it's not much of a choice at all.

It's not like it won't be rewarding for you. He's a valuable hostage that the Governor, his office and Prasadi officials will want back. He'll do whatever you say. "Surely', he says, "a group of individuals such as you can find... use for me."

The Governor's compound is in Uptown at the top of a hill, a fortified wooden complex emblazoned with the sigils and colors of Prasad. It has two great teak doors, and few windows--and a great deal of guards, some Dragonblooded. His office is at the heart of the complex, in a central room with no windows on the second floor. The guards change every three hours, and he takes long walks the first morning of every week down by the water. "Do what you have to."

He only cries a little as he asks you to murder his father.

Bian offers him a bed to sleep in with a warm smile, and he holds her hand as she walks him to his room. He'll be nice and safe at the Lady's Smile, she assures everyone.

Orochi watches him go, slit eyes, lit with milky light, that see more than they should. Yes, Sinla truly is the Governor's son. He's used to a life of luxury punctuated by crueelty, and is liked by all--and it's not hard to see why. He's kind and selfless to a fault, even when he oughtn't be, and believes whole-heartedly in his duties to his lessers.

A boy like him has little place in Prasad.  
[2:33 PM] The Rookrook: ---

It's another day before they all reconvene, but this time they're on Orochi's turf, in his clinic. The entire city holds its breath. More murders down in the squallid Gutter, the portside run of displaced refugees with no-where else to go. No idea who or why. Just death by sickness and by knives to the back. Tenepeshu's Eye, the great granite structure that bulwarks the harbor and gives Lighthouse District its name, turns its light through the fog as a third celestial body, glaring through his high windows.

News of Tenepeshu's death is yet to spread. Jangma told Orochi - and a smiling Curio - in confidence that there's about a week before the news gets out. Then, all hell breaks loose.  
[2:36 PM] Bian: Bian is wearing her own face - almost. There's something off about the way she looks compared her showy looks in the dance halls and lounges. Like the woman's sister, perhaps - still beautiful, but not so fashionable. She sits carefully on the seas, pouring tea for the others.

"It never rains, but it pours," she says, glancing outside with a wry expression.  
[2:37 PM] Coyote: "I don't like it," Coyote mutters, his deep voice reverberating into something almost a growl. He leans against the far wall, his arms crossed. "Tenepeshu is murdered, and now we're being asked to add more bodies to the pile?"  
[2:38 PM] Curio: Curio, for her part, is not wearing anything, other than copious amounts of blue paint. Her entire shell is covered with complex depictions of trade-life in Ysyr, rendered in an expert hand. Sometimes, the pictures move - when one is not watching, usually. Not always.  
[2:39 PM] Curio: "Why are we killing people again?" she asks, absent-mindly.  
[2:39 PM] Bian: "We're not necessarily killing anyone," Bian says, voice clear with conviction. "Violence is a brute's first resort - and there are other ways to get that awful man out of the seat of power."  
[2:40 PM] Wren: Wren seems to have taken the long way to get here, as they arrived a bit later than everyone else. They'd been in kind of a haze since the previous day.

A haze that thankfully seems to have gone away. They have a bit of a hard time staying seated, though one can't tell if that's quite nervousness or...well, soreness.

There's also a matter of the brand-new golden chain around their neck, which they very much didn't have yesterday.  
[2:41 PM] Orochi: Orochi's clinic is pristine, well appointed, quiet and cool even in the choking humidity. Wheeled cabinets stand along the walls, laquered drawers filled with surgical equipment, gauze, basic tinctures. A locked case in the back holding shelves of the more valuable stuff, dozens of different powders and liquids in a whole host of colors. Every cloth-draped bed here is immaculate. Every cloth-draped bed here is empty. He's turned the small sign outside the doorway but somehow you suspect it doesn't really make a difference. You're not sure a single patient's ever set foot in this place.

(The good doctor is much like his clinic, faintly smiling, every inch the gracious host: he brewed tea and set out a tray of sweetmeats for everyone. Little sugary things from a bakery a few streets over. The drinks are hot. The food is good. Something in you is terrified to let so much as a single crumb fall to the spotless floor.)  
[2:43 PM] Coyote: "Even so," Coyote says, turning his head to face Bian. "Is it wise? The city is going to explode soon enough when it's learned Tenepeshu is dead. The removal of the governor, violently or otherwise, is just going to add fuel to that fire."  
[2:44 PM] Wren: Wren is very quietly (but messily) stuffing a single cookie into their mouth, before they haphazardly wipe their mouth with a napkin. They don't even put it back right.

"Well, personally I'm not some lowly assassin." They leaned back in their chair. "I can hardly kill a fly." They pause, then look to Coyote. "And what he said."  
[2:45 PM] Bian: Bian directs a sharp look at Coyote, dark eyes flashing. "Are you saying you lied to that sweet little boy?" she says, shocked.  
[2:46 PM] Orochi: "The Governor's role really has nothing to do with peace-keeping or actual administration," Orochi says as he sips his tea, "He's here as an envoy of Prasadi interests and represents one of the last few rotted strands around the city's neck."  
[2:46 PM] Orochi: "The actual question is 'will Prasad be able to mobilize an army in the event they hear of his untimely demise and/or disappearance'. To which the answer is, fortunately, 'likely no'."  
[2:47 PM] Wren: "I mean I could fuck him and hope that a venereal disease finishes him off." Wren sips their tea.  
[2:47 PM] Coyote: "What I'm saying is I didn't agree to anything. Just stayed quiet while you lot did the talking." He sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "I feel like we're flying blind here and I don't like it. We don't know where this track is going to go."  
[2:48 PM] Orochi: There's a pause. Orochi's eyebrows rise fractionally. A small, silent, "speak for yourself".  
[2:48 PM] Curio: "I don't understand" Curio says, clinking her hands loudly "why you are all so invested in this Prasad thing. Or Champoor."  
She turns her head briefly toward Orochi as she speaks, as if glancing.  
[2:49 PM] Orochi: "Personal inclination," he says mildly. "Human interest."  
[2:50 PM] Curio: "Human..." Curio nods.  
[2:50 PM] Bian: Bian spreads her arms, elegantly grasping her tea. "I've been all over the world, friend," she says with a smile. "I go where the moon carries me. And I try to leave the places I go to a better place. The Governor is an awful, vile man." She glances over at Orochi. "And even Orochi can see it." Her eyes are bright. "I can see that for all he acts big and tough and pretends not to care, he really does!" She reaches out to pat him on the arm.  
[2:51 PM] Curio: "Ah."  
[2:51 PM] Curio: "And what about that Dragon-man?"  
[2:51 PM] Curio: "The one who held that boy on the leash? What is he in all this?"  
[2:52 PM] Orochi: He doesn't move. He lets her. Beneath the flowing, ivory-pale cloth the limb is sinewy and steel-cabled, strung with lean muscle. Nothing about him shifts. Nothing is ill at ease. There's just...nothing, really. Just a faint movement, a scarlet, slitted pupil shifting, tracking her from the corner of his eye. His smile widens minutely.  
[2:53 PM] Wren: Wren scoots their chair an inch or five down the table.  
[2:53 PM] Bian: Bian smiles a happy little smile, still resting her hand on Orochi's arm. "Now, I think it would be awfully convenient to set that man against the equally awful governor," she tells Curio. "Let them dirty their sordid hands tearing into one another."  
[2:54 PM] Coyote: "Kick the gang war off early?"  
[2:54 PM] Wren: "I mean to be honest, it seems a mite inevitable." Wren sips their tea and tries to hide their glee at the idea of Champoor collapsing into itself.  
[2:54 PM] Bian: "If it is an inevitability, then wouldn't it be better to make sure the worst elements are fighting one another?" she asks mildly, as if discussing the weather.  
[2:55 PM] Coyote: Coyote grunts. "Point."  
[2:55 PM] Curio: Curio clicks her fingers against each another a few times. They rattle like a china set.  
[2:56 PM] Curio: "I have no mind for any of it" she says. "I don't understand any of it, either. But- if you are so invested" the word comes out of her... wherever her words come out from almost like a snarl "then tell me what am I in it."  
[2:58 PM] Orochi: "Hm..." says Orochi, not unbothered by the idea but not precisely convinced either, "Really it all depends what our most remarkable proprietor has in mind."  
[3:00 PM] Curio: Curio entire body twists on its axis as she moves to face Bian. Scenes of serene trading slowly fade from her shell, until it is blank white again.  
[3:00 PM] Bian: Bian shrugs, finally removing her hand from Orochi's leg. Her nails gleam blue-green in the light seeping in from the windows. "Oh, I'm merely suggesting we take the chance to take a little look around that awful man's house - and those of his allies, too. Who notices a cat in the halls or a bird outside the windows? Not least, I am," she smiles a shining smile, "fascinated to find out what the governor's reaction will be to finding out his son is missing - and what the man's reaction is to having lost him."  
[3:02 PM] Curio: "I know a secret charm by which I claim a heart" Curio nods in agreement. "And from the heart I drink undilluted truth."  
[3:02 PM] Wren: "Actually, question. Is the governor attractive? I don't think I've ever seen him before." They lean back in their chair.  
[3:02 PM] Coyote: "No idea. I've never been this far east before."  
[3:02 PM] Wren: They stuff another biscuit in their mouth.  
[3:05 PM] Bian: Bian wobbles her hand. "Definitely more attractive than average, as might he suspected from his nature. Not a ten, but definitely a seven or an eight," she tells Wren seriously.  
[3:05 PM] Wren: "...twink or daddy?"  
[3:06 PM] Bian: "I... well, he's a father, isn't he?" She looked genuinely confused.  
[3:06 PM] Wren: Wren squints. "Okay when I say 'daddy' I don't mean a father I mean..." They look around, then point to Coyote. "A daddy."  
[3:06 PM] Bian: "Coyote has children? Oh, congratulations!"  
[3:06 PM] Wren: "Yes."  
[3:06 PM] Wren: "NO"  
[3:07 PM] Coyote: Coyote sighs.

[3:28 PM] The Rookrook: ---

Coyote squats on a looming soapstone tower's parapet, shielding his eyes from the rain as he watches the squat compound from a block away, several dozen feet above the action. There's two Exalted guards at each door, and two circuiting around. They're soaked to the bone, and complain - loudly - about their working conditions. "Nothin' ever happens anyway 'ere," one sneers. "So why're we still here?"

"Shut up," the other says. He turns and glares at his fellow, and begins to insult his mother, his mother's cooking, and the taste of both his mother and her cooking. Behind him pads a cat, slithers a snake.

The other guard fires back, and it just gets worse from there as a little bird flies in, followed by a bug.

The compound's front chamber is gaudy in the Prasadi fashion, but the furniture and counters are covered in dust. It's empty of people save for a receptionist at a tall desk. Hallways veer off to the left and right, low and cramped, and sweeping stairwells lead to the second floor - where resides the Governor's Office - with the same hallways. People walk in the hallways, muttering and with scrolls - the Governor's staff. Cakori Buno must be that way.  
[3:30 PM] Curio: Curio circles around as a brilliant-white dragonfly, trying to follow the rest of her group. There is something enjoyable about just hovering, unnoticed: unless she wants to.

She could have everyone here notice her. She could.  
[3:33 PM] Bian: A handsome black tomcat swaggers up the stairs, moving like he owns the place. But that's hardly a surprise, is it? These old buildings have more than their fair share of cats who help keep the rats and mice away. Especially in a place with so much paperwork, the sight of a ratter is no real surprise. One heading in the vague direction of the Governor's Office - sniffing the corners, occasionally pausing for pats from bureaucrats with their hands free - is life as usual.  
[3:35 PM] Orochi: The snake is somewhat more exotic, a long, sinuous creature. All blue-black scales, trimmed in silver. Hide glistening slick from the constant rain outside, a servant would scream if they saw it to be sure. But none do. And all else aside the serpent is very, very quiet.  
[3:36 PM] Wren: And a tiny bird leaps across the ground, pecking at the ground for...well, nothing. But it looks natural. They chirp and bounce and squeak, before they jump in front of one of the guards.

Then they chirp again. Directly at a guard. They tilt their head. Another chirp. They bounce right towards the dragonfly, and they move almost like they're...dancing?  
[3:37 PM] Curio: Curio at first doesn't realize what Wren is doing. But then she does.  
[3:38 PM] Curio: At first it looks like she is just evading a bird that is trying to eat her... and even moments later, it still feels like there is some threat of that in how she darts and dances around the bird, a sliver streaking light playing the buzz of her wings to chirping of the bird.  
[3:41 PM] The Rookrook: The receptionist looks up and gasp. "What a pretty bird!" she cries. Heads turn in the hallway. There's not much to do here, and people eagerly watch the aero drama unfold, clapping happily at the pretty colors.  
[3:41 PM] The Rookrook: They suspect nothing.  
[3:42 PM] Wren: "CHIRP!"  
[3:46 PM] Curio: "Bzzt!"  
[3:46 PM] The Rookrook: An oil slick slinks up to tall open doors. They're already open--from within comes the sound of arguing.

A deep booming voice--that sounds like Sinla. "You'll be learning respect soon enough, hah! All of you! You've mocked us for long enough, only giving up a trickle--well it's time you fulfill your obligation--"

"Obligation?" sneers the other, a harsh grate. His accent is decidedly lower class--gutter Champa. "Fuck do you know about obligation Mr. Imperial? Don't make me laugh."

Bian can see a tattooed man, dressed in simple clothes and sandals and with a slew of piercings, arguing with a man dressed in Prasadi colors.  
[3:47 PM] The Rookrook: Bian recognizes him. This is Tenepeshu's second in command.  
[3:48 PM] The Rookrook: His name is Jeyen Te. He is a sorcerer without peer. She remembers Jangma complaining about him because he's a massive prick.  
[3:49 PM] Bian: The cat slinks up closer, watching the men and their interaction. Green eyes gleam, watching them. Taking them in. Listening for their weaknesses, their nuances, adding the knowledge to her mental map of the powers of this place.  
[3:52 PM] Bian: After all, everyone expects a cat to be sitting there, watching. That's what cats do.  
[3:59 PM] Bian: She focusses on the governor more.  
[4:01 PM] The Rookrook: Bian watches and listens. Nobody pays the cat any mind. It's just a cat.

They argue on. Grandstanding, petty insults. It goes in circles, getting more and more heated.

Jeyen Te is an open book written in a language she can't read. He's a gangster. He's a learned sorcerer. He's a canny man, a long, sneering face, come up from nothing--the unspoken heart of the Five Fingers.

But the Governor, ah, he's no secret at all. Bian has him under her little paw. He's a proud man--proud and angry. Educated in the Prasadi way, raised right with the dogma of the Pure Ones in his ear. He is a god among men. He is the better of all. Everything has a place, and in that place it must stay.  
[4:01 PM] The Rookrook: He's not a family man, but he'd never willingly turn a blind eye to something like his son being abused. And he'd rather burn this city to the ground than let it slip away from Prasad once and for all.  
[4:02 PM] The Rookrook: Anger does that to a soul.  
[4:03 PM] Bian: The cat considers this, and paces further into the office. Smelling the wood, the scents of the place. Eyes gleaming for what treasures, what precious things are sitting around here.  
[4:04 PM] The Rookrook: A pile of books teeters beside the desk that the arguing men stand in front of. One is labeled in boxy script, 'Gubernatorial Log'. The Governor's mandated journal.  
[4:06 PM] Bian: Keeping low, a black cat in a room where men are arguing sniffs around, jumping up onto the governor's chair. Just as a cat would.  
[4:19 PM] Bian: The cat places its paw on the book, and it vanishes into nothingness. With a claw, the cat carves a name onto the desk - CAKORI it says.

And then tail up, the cat struts out.  
\---  
Cakori Buno's office is a cramped appointment, less a room with a desk than a desk with a room. Orochi slithers comfortably past it but it would be a tight squeeze for his human form. Scrolls are piled high on the desk and peek out from its many drawers. There's a cot under the desk, covered in dried blood and reeking of sex.

He said he was with the Governor. He didn't say he was an accountant.  
[3:43 PM] Orochi: He's interested in an abstract kind of way, it's one of the inherent attributes of being one of Luna's chosen: you're always the voyeur. Always the observer. The pale face in the night sky, looking down on all the things that occur by cover of darkness. Watching it happen. Forgetting it by the dawn.  
[3:44 PM] Orochi: The snake is a man in a long, white coat and an equally pristine hat, the brim still dripping with rainwater. The man is still a serpent.  
[3:55 PM] The Rookrook: Orochi looks. He finds ledgers of expenditures. Cakori Buno handles the funds--and, it seems, cooks the books. Orochi was trained in mathematics, in another life, in another land, and he can tell that a substantial amount of jade goes missing every month.

And under the desk. A hidden drawer. He presses up with a pop, and out comes a little black book. In it are names, some crossed off, some not. They're boys' names.

Sinla's name is crossed off.  
[4:02 PM] Orochi: He's not a good person. It's a technically true fact made trite by it's...inadequacy. The sky is vast. The sea is deep. Orochi, the snake who is a man who sometimes stops pretending, is not a good person. Coyote, he's sure, would feel some deep burning outrage, would probably make some ridiculous declaration of vengeance. Vo Bian, he's sure, would feel some queasy, stomach-churning horror (oh but how bad can she really feel, she rolls over for them just like everyone else). But Orochi is one of Luna's monsters. And this? This is just one of those things that happens by night, in the darkness, in the shadows where all foul and fair things find root.

But still.

Orochi isn't a good person, he's not doing this for any moral reason. The fact that it's a good act and the fact that it serves to further his own goals are a useful coincidence, nothing more. But still it's hard not to feel at least a flicker of something almost like vindictive spite as he pockets the book and turns back into a snake, turning a few shades more honest with the disguise.  
[4:02 PM] Orochi: He smothers it eventually of course, it's not a useful feeling.  
[4:02 PM] Orochi: But he can't help but savor it for a second or two.  
\---  
[4:25 PM] The Rookrook: The Lunars leave. A snake stays behind long after dark, and sweetens a drink.

\---

Another day passes. The sun slides limply down into the sky. It's a misty night, even by Champoor standards - you can hardly see your own nose. Orochi sends out feelers. One comes back quickly - Cakori Buno frequents a brothel known for serving more... discerning clientele, in the north of town, in the ramshackle anarchy of neighborhoods known as the Sprawl. He'll be there tonight like he is every night.

It's a decrepit old warehouse on a city street overgrown with weeds, pocked with squalid puddles. There's one door, that doesn't look like a door, and corner girls in thin clothing waiting outside.  
[4:25 PM] The Rookrook: The Governor will be here any minute, before Cakori.

[4:30 PM] Bian: Sitting on the roof, Bian is a black rat. She considers this, watching the road down below. Waiting for his arrival. There are holes in the roof she can get in through, to head inside.

But she's not going to head inside. The rat turns into a sea hawk, then spreading her wings, she takes flight. She heads up into the low-hanging cloud.  
[4:32 PM] Orochi: A bird perches on a sloping, shingled roof beside her. Some pale white, ornamental thing. One of those delicate tropical birds that house-bound husbands keep in gilded cages, letting fly only in private aviaries or clip their wings, letting them loose in lovingly maintained gardens. Beneath beautiful feathers there's a glimpse of scales, reptilian flesh like the surface of the sea at night.  
[4:36 PM] Coyote: Coyote sits in a nearby alley, to all appearances a large dog. Only the learned would know this canine is one suited more for dry, hot climes rather than the stifling humidity of Champoor. His tongue lolls open as he pants, fighting the heat as best he can while lurking in the shadows, observing the street with shining eyes.  
[4:36 PM] Curio: Curio, for her part, is never one to miss having the front seats for such disaster. But that man - one of them, she doesn't remember which - remembers her. So when she enters the brothel, she is not Curio anymore. She is Three-Wisdoms Crowned, a tall and bright-eyed Ysyrian noble, waste of youth and wealth if Creation has ever seen one. Long dead and rotted, too: but Champoor does not know that.  
[4:37 PM] Orochi: As the rat watches the bird fans its wings, silver-tipped pinions gleaming like little slices of moonlight. Finger-thin serpents push out from beneath the feathers for a moment, unspooling from the chest like still-animate viscera. A half-dozen small, blunt heads. Forked tongues flickering, tasting the night. And then the coiling tangle abruptly retracts back in.  
[4:37 PM] Wren: Wren, meanwhile, is human again, slicking their hair and flexing their fingers. They stay in an alleyway just by Coyote, dressed as they normally would.

A perfect opportunity to be the center of attention.  
[4:44 PM] Wren: They slink out from the alleyway, finger tracing the wall. It's a brothel, so that means it's full of business. Business that's very, very much looking for a piece.

A piece they're willing to provide. They finall finish tracing their hand across the wall, before they take the piece of gold around their neck.

Then they yank. The flimsy string underneath is pulled apart, golden pieces of a bracelet fall onto the ground as they push their hands into a wooden door that people would really want to be entering.

"Oh, whoops~!" They shout. They lean against the wall in a way that sticks their ass out way, way farther out than it should be. "I seem to have, dropped my jewelry~!" They slide their hands down, intentionally keeping their rear in the air.

It's probably the most obnoxious they could possibly be in this situation.

It's also exactly what they're going for.  
[4:47 PM] The Rookrook: The corner girls and streetwalkers all holler at Wren. Appreciative whistles fill the air. "Yes queen! Work!"

People poke their heads out of the door. An old, matronly figure comes out, with pounds of makeup on her face and a tight-fitting dress. Her eyes are fit to bug out of her skull as she watches Wren. "Who is this? You're not one of my girls! Or boys! Scram outta my turf!"

People keep coming out. Heads turn across the street.  
[4:48 PM] Wren: "I'm not one of your girls or your boys. I'm Wren!"  
[4:48 PM] Wren: They turn around on the door, then clutch their loincloth. As though they're threatening to pull it away.  
[4:48 PM] The Rookrook: The old woman scowl something fierce. "I don't care who you are! You can suck my-"

And then the Governor arrives from around the street corner.  
[4:48 PM] Wren: "Oh I'd gladly, honey~"

Then Wren notices the governor coming around the street corner. It's perfect. Exactly what they were going for.

And most importantly, he's definitely a daddy.  
[4:51 PM] Curio: Curio-not-Curio just watches absent-mindly. She preferred them as a bird. Far more appealing.  
[4:51 PM] Orochi: Up on a roof a bird that’s almost too beautiful, seemingly too fragile to fly sort of just...tilts its head.  
[4:51 PM] Coyote: In the alley, the canine in the shadows just chuffs in what might have been a sigh, or possibly laughter.  
[4:52 PM] Coyote: It could have been either.  
[4:53 PM] The Rookrook: He's not recognized as the Governor, but it's clear to see that he's a Dragonblooded, a Dragon Caste. He's somewhere he shouldn't be, and he's angry. He ignores Wren and bellow, "CAKORI BUNO! COME OUT YOU CRETIN!"

The woman blanches. "H-Him? He's not here, he's--"

He's stepping outside. His pants are at his ankles. He's drunk, and he's annoyed at being interrupted. "What the fuck? What do you want?" he calls to nobody, eyes unfocused.

Goverenor Adlahkta steps forward. He looks pale, but grimly determined,  
[4:54 PM] The Rookrook: He approaches Cakori Buno, a very slight wobble in his step. He strikes the drunk man across the mouth. A little blood splatters Wren.  
[4:54 PM] Wren: Wren blinks. Then they slooooowly slide out of the way.  
[4:56 PM] The Rookrook: Cakori Buno snarls, and says, "Fuck you! And your little brat! He always disrespected me too!"

The fog whips about. The ground begins to dampen. Swirls of Essence in the air as they ready for combat.

The drunk man swings with a haymaker everyone sees coming from a mile away.

It connects.

The Governor goes down. He sinks like a bag of rocks and coughs bloody foam, and his breath is ragged - strained, wheezing.  
[4:56 PM] The Rookrook: Cakori Buno steps back in shock, clearly surprised one bad punch did that. The crowd erupts into screaming.  
[4:57 PM] The Rookrook: The man of Prasad is dead. Long live Prasad.  
[4:59 PM] Curio: Curio watches this all from the sidelines. Cakori, Cakori... this man seems familiar. Ah! He was the one who chained the governor's son to the wall. Curio, to be honest, doesn't like him. She doesn't like his triumph.  
[4:59 PM] Curio: The skin of the Ysyr man melts around her as she returns to her natural form. She clicks her fingers.  
[5:04 PM] Curio: She sheds her beauty like she sheds her skin. When she moves through the crowd, people part and shift away, like one would from something disgusting; they can't name that feeling, they can't say what it is about this blank shell walking between them that makes them so afraid. But they are, and they should be. Only insects that crawl and swarm between rotted floorboards, in the rafters, in rancid mattresses, seem drawn to her.  
[5:05 PM] Curio: She walks through the crowd until Cakori can see her.  
[5:05 PM] Curio: Then, she pecks her head. Far. Porcelain temples click against porcelian shoulder.  
[5:05 PM] Curio: "Hello."  
[5:08 PM] The Rookrook: Cakori Buno blanches.

The crowd stampedes.

Cakoru Buno runs.

[5:08 PM] Curio: Curio straightens, slowly.  
[5:08 PM] The Rookrook: It's chaos. It's hell. The man runs away, naked from the waist down, into the rainy night. The corpse is kicked and stepped on.  
[5:08 PM] Curio: She takes her time, setting her limbs right. It takes a bit of effort: a bit like trying to put a limb back in joint, only with more ceramic.  
[5:09 PM] Curio: "I thought he would be braver" she says to no one in particular, or potentially Orochi.  
[5:10 PM] Coyote: Flesh and bone melt away before Coyote steps out of the alley, cracking his neck as he takes human shape once again. By this point the crowd as dispersed, everyone terrified of the unearthly, inhuman aura Curio surrounded herself with. With a heave he lifts the governor's corpse onto his shoulder and nods to the woman.

"Drunk and stupid rarely equates to true courage."  
[5:11 PM] Wren: Wren flicks their tongue. Then they slump back against the wall.

They almost have a quip about wanting to fuck one of the people that Curio just scared away but well...

They glance to the corpse over Coyote's shoulder. "That was...sudden. I thought it would be more than that." They try to play it off a little but this is...a bit much.  
[5:12 PM] Orochi: "Just leave him," Orcohi says mildly, a mist-clad ghost stepping out of the shadows. "I'll make sure he's found."  
[5:13 PM] Coyote: "Fights are usually done pretty quick," Coyote says. He looks to Orochi. "You sure? I figured we were just going to dump the corpse in the river."  
[5:13 PM] Curio: "Orochi!" Curio suddenly jumps up. "Orochi, was this what I was meant to do?"  
[5:14 PM] Orochi: "Oh it'll be much easier if there's a body-" a pause as he glances at Curio, something fond and affectionate flitting across his face. Something more sincere than his usual, perfect, restrained smile. Giving the lie to the mask.  
[5:15 PM] Orochi: "It very well might be," he replies, "You were- well. It's not as if anyone could have torn their eyes away is it?"  
[5:15 PM] Curio: "Good. I hope his heart breaks."  
[5:20 PM] The Rookrook: --

They meet Bian back at her club. She's settled into a luxurious chair. She looks beat.

A mop of hair pokes through the door. Sinla is spying on the conversation--his bruising gone to sick, ugly shades, very slowly healing. His eyes are wide.  
[5:20 PM] Curio: "Are they talking about that dragon-man?" Curio says, strangely curious. "Are they talking of him?"  
[5:20 PM] Bian: "So, boys - and Curio and Wren," Bian says with a yawn. "What did I miss?"  
[5:21 PM] Wren: "Governor's dead. Street's haunted."  
[5:21 PM] Bian: "Street's haunted?"  
[5:21 PM] Curio: Curio waves her head a bit. "Should I be a boy for you?"  
[5:21 PM] Wren: "I mean...could you be a cute boy for sweet little me?"  
[5:21 PM] Curio: Then she quickly shakes the thought off. "I spoke to that dragon-man."  
[5:22 PM] Curio: "He heard something in me."  
[5:22 PM] Wren: "Oh, you weren't talking to me, okay."  
[5:22 PM] Curio: Curio turns to Wren, suddenly arrow-straight.  
[5:22 PM] Curio: "I liked you feathers."  
[5:23 PM] Wren: Wren blinks. "...thank...you?"  
[5:23 PM] Coyote: "No, the street isn't haunted," Coyote says with a sigh, adjusting his kafiyah as he sits down. "We made sure the body would be found. In any event, the job is done. Governor is dead and Cakori Buno's reputation is so deep in the mud it's choking." He looks at Sinla, weariness clear in his eyes. "You got what you wanted, child. I hope it was worth it."  
[5:24 PM] Orochi: Scarlet eyes catch the boy's in the next room, slitted and scarlet and almost -almost- human. He knows he's there. The boy knows he knows. Orochi's smile cracks a few degrees wider, wryer, something very nearly like genuine amusement. But he doesn't shoo the child off.  
[5:24 PM] Bian: "I'm sorry. I just... couldn't stay. And watch someone die," Bian says, eyes wide. "You... did you do it?"  
[5:24 PM] Coyote: "Buno did it," Coyote replies. "He was drunk and used too much strength."  
[5:25 PM] Wren: "Well, no." Wren mutters. "But we definitely contributed to it. And he..." their confidence ebbs away a little "...collapsed like a sack of bricks after one punch."  
[5:25 PM] Orochi: Bloody red eyes flit back to the boy.  
[5:25 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla swallows, but does not look away.  
[5:25 PM] Orochi: The snake that is a man slightly tilts his head.  
[5:25 PM] Bian: She smiles at that. Seems relieved. "At least your hands are clean," she says, blue-green nails tapping into the plush arm of her seat.  
[5:26 PM] Coyote: Coyote snorts.  
[5:26 PM] Curio: Curio looks at her hands.  
[5:26 PM] Wren: Wren looks away.  
[5:27 PM] Curio: She examines them very thoroughly, as if her unseen eyes could see what is beneath the porcelain skin.  
[5:27 PM] Curio: "For now."  
[5:27 PM] Orochi: Orochi smiles pleasantly.  
[5:28 PM] The Rookrook: The boy warily approaches. His bright eyes swim with tears, and his soft face is racked with trepidation. "Surely?" he says in a quavering voice. "He is dead? Cakori Buno is gone?"  
[5:28 PM] The Rookrook: "You killed my father?"  
[5:28 PM] Coyote: "Indirectly, but yes," Coyote says. "Ours were the hands that set this in motion."  
[5:28 PM] Coyote: He gives Sinla a look.  
[5:28 PM] Coyote: "As were yours."

[5:29 PM] Orochi: "Oh, don't be so hard on the child, we're all murderers here," he says, affable and friendly. He beckons him over, motioning to the empty seat at his side.  
[5:30 PM] Wren: "My hands aren't dirty and I am hardly a killer." Wren says. They still have dried blood on their face.  
[5:31 PM] Coyote: Coyote glances at Wren, but remains silent.  
[5:31 PM] Bian: "Oh, where are my manners," Bian says, sitting upright. "I will have my people bring in food. And scented towels."  
[5:31 PM] Orochi: Black nailed hands spread, a magnanimous motion "The governor is dead, Cakori Buno will take the blame. The chaos will be constrained to the Prasadi delegation since this is, really, wholly an internal matter."  
[5:31 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla breathes deep through his nose. "If it means that there's less violence when Prasad comes for the city, I... I will accept that there is blood on my hands." He looks at the seat by Orochi like it will hurt him. But he approaches.  
[5:31 PM] The Rookrook: He sits gingerly, and exhales.  
[5:32 PM] The Rookrook: "My word, then. You wish to know what I saw."  
[5:33 PM] Orochi: "Mmhm," he says. Polite. Patient. Treating the boy like a...well a business partner, a contracted ally. Waiting for him to fulfill his end of the bargain.  
[5:36 PM] The Rookrook: "Very well." Sinla closes his eyes, and after a minute, he begins to speak.

"I was on the roof, because there were too many people below. They would have caught me, and never believed I am - was - " he corrects himself "- the Governor's son. I watched through windows painted with rainwater, the image of Tenepeshu below blurry.

"She spoke intently with the Firefly. What they argued about, I do not know. But when he left, I saw smoke from the braziers curdle. It came together in the shape of a person. That person floated up to the statue, and began to... to bite." His voice is dull, and his eyes are unseeing of images behind eyelids. The boy is in shock, but still he continues. "I think it was a ghost. And the man's daughter, I know she is a necromancer..."

He snorts bitterly. "The conclusion is obvious."  
[5:36 PM] The Rookrook: "However..."  
[5:38 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla smiles without warmth, or joy, or humor. "You are outsiders to the city. Your word is good. And your word decides who pays for this. I have told you who I think did it. But that's just it. It's what I think. There is no proof. Because proof does not matter. Who did it, does not matter. Your word does."  
[5:38 PM] The Rookrook: He looks each of you in the eye, stopping with Orochi. "So... fellow killers, why don't you tell me who did it?"  
[5:38 PM] The Rookrook: "Tell the whole city."  
[5:42 PM] Coyote: Another grunt from Coyote, and he stands up. "I'll do that once we have a better idea. You've given us a lead, but we'll need more before we can say anything that'll convince anyone."  
[5:42 PM] Curio: Curio, mildly bored, is still watching her hands intently.  
[5:44 PM] Orochi: Orochi lifts his fingers, a small motion of acknowledgement. "Coyote is not incorrect, although I'd disagree on the priorities."  
[5:45 PM] Orochi: "The unfortunate fact is that while we could attribute the blame to any party we chose- well."  
[5:45 PM] Orochi: "If someone's bold enough to attempt to murder Tenepeshu herself, and clever and lucky enough to manage it..."  
[5:45 PM] Orochi: "Why."  
[5:45 PM] Orochi: "What's to stop them from attempting it again?"  
[5:45 PM] Bian: "I agree," Bian says. "I... I don't want to get too caught in the politics. Someone who could kill something like that mighty dragon might come for me and," she glances imploringly at Coyote, "I'm not a fighter."  
[5:45 PM] Orochi: "Especially if we so conveniently provide them with a scapegoat."  
[5:46 PM] The Rookrook: "Those in the know will want answers, and they'll want them soon," Sinla says quietly. "They won't wait forever. And if you give them an answer they don't like, that doesn't serve their own agenda..."  
[5:47 PM] The Rookrook: It's disconcerting to hear a boy this young speak so candidly of politics.  
[5:48 PM] Orochi: And Orochi laughs, a touch condescending, a touch indulgent. "Well. We'll have to burn those bridges when we come to them, eh?"  
[5:49 PM] Coyote: "Yeah, it's always the way of things," Coyote mutters. He takes a deep breath. "All right, so what exactly are we going to do next?"  
[5:49 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla curls in on himself, looking up at Bian with hollow eyes.  
[5:49 PM] The Rookrook: "I don't... I don't have anywhere else to stay. I can't go back," he says haltingly.  
[5:50 PM] Curio: Curio leaves the room to prowl the streets for some time. She will ask Orochi what has just happened, but later.  
[5:50 PM] Bian: "I don't know." Bian curls up in her chair. "I want a nap. But then we probably want to keep our ears to the ground. See what's going to happen next." She looks over at Sinla, inhaling. "And you're welcome to stay," she says, sadly. "No mother, no family?"  
[5:51 PM] The Rookrook: "I can't go back," he repeats.  
[5:52 PM] Bian: "I... understand that." Her eyes show a deep, painful sorrow.  
[5:52 PM] Wren: Wren mutters something under their breath.  
[5:53 PM] Coyote: "Yeah... I get that." Coyote scowls, then shakes his head. In one smooth motion he steps close to Sinla and kneels down, placing a hand on the child's shoulder. "Look, none of us are what I would call 'upstanding,' but we're not going to throw you to the wolves. Got plenty in all our histories with family and the loss thereof. So while I can't say we'll always guarantee your safety... Well, we'll do our best."  
[5:54 PM] Orochi: "I could host you, although I'm sure Bian has a room here if you would rather not relocate," Orochi replies. "But it's as you said, you're still quite valuable. And we certainly have a vested interested in ensuring no harm comes to you."  
[5:56 PM] The Rookrook: It's something like tenderness in the miserable night. A moment of gentleness, tender like an old ache. Sinla smiles weakly.

There's a commotion out in the dance hall. Gasping and screaming. A maid bursts in, pale and scandalized.

"Oh, lady!" she cries to Bian. "Terrible news!"

"Tenepeshu is dead!"  
[5:56 PM] The Rookrook: ---


	5. Take The Money And Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coyote gets real with Wren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the night of "Inhale".

Smoke swirls around the ceiling and walls of The Lady's Smile, mixing with the soft, slow sounds of music like a gentle haze upon the soul. What patrons their are let themselves drift away into that soft embrace, willingly allowing that smothering pressure to push them deeper into the ethereal dream the lounge had become. The woman on stage continues her tender serenade, the soft twanging of strings and the dull percussion of drums enough to make one think she spoke only to you, coaxing your weary head into her arms.

Coyote lets it all wash over him as he swirled the drink in his glass, amber and tasting faintly of smoke. The atmosphere washing over the club is a lie, and one all too willingly accepted by those who do not want to think of tomorrow. Because the world has changed, and the future brings with it a promise of suffering.

Story of my life, Coyote thinks as he takes another sip of the liquor, enjoying that smooth burn as it makes its way down his throat. So what else is new?  
[10:37 PM] Wren: And then Wren stumbles out of a nearby restroom. They look particularly bruised today, their lipstick is smudged and their eyeshadow is starting to look a bit less than perfect. They notice their loincloth is a bit askew, and they quickly put it back into place.

Well, that, and they now have ten glimmering, golden rings. Each with a unique design, each from a different person.

They'd been busy. Quite busy, in fact.

Busy in a way that makes it look more like they're trying to distract themself.

They notice Coyote. The first instinct is to sit next to him and yammer his ear off.

The second instinct is to just leave.

The unfortunate part is that instead of actually coming to a decision quickly, they instead freeze and just stare at the man. Long enough for him to notice that they haven't moved an inch.  
[10:39 PM] Coyote: "You just going to stand there staring all night?" Coyote says, glancing at Wren out of the corner of his eye. He motions to the other side of the table. "I'm not that pretty, but you're welcome to join me."  
[10:54 PM] Wren: Shit.

"I...yes, you know what I will join you."

They strut towards the other side of the table, right towards Coyote. They sit their pretty little ass right in the chair across from the man, before immediately just slumping forward and putting their chin in their hands.

"You first."  
[10:56 PM] Coyote: Coyote raises an eyebrow. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."  
[10:58 PM] Wren: "You first. I can't be the one starting conversations, that's too forward. I should be alluring enough that..."

They then rapidly realize that Coyote isn't a mark.

"Right...right right right, no, I mean...ugh. Ugh." They scratch at the table in frustration. "Okay, I mean we need to get out."  
[11:00 PM] Coyote: "Get out..." Coyote says, tasting the words. He takes another sip of his drink to flavor their texture, allowing himself a moment to appreciate them before speaking again. "Now there's an idea."  
[11:03 PM] Wren: Wren's eyes trace over the man, before they sigh and breathe in through their nose.

"I am not telling some demented gag, I am saying that whatever we came here to do isn't worth the hassle. I do not want to be at ground zero for this nonsense petty something. I am not here for that."  
[11:12 PM] Wren: "Probably should have ignored that Silver Pact order." They scrunch their nose up. "Ooooh, look at us we're so damnably important oooh come back to this worthless town oooh, it'll be fine it's well worth the rewaaaaaaard blah-blah-blah-blaaaaah."  
[11:13 PM] Wren: "Is the Silver Pact even worth a damn? Do they accomplish much other than being shadowy mysterious ooOoOoOh." They wave their hands in as obnoxious and condescending a way as possible.  
[11:13 PM] Wren: "SpOoKy ClaNDeStiNE."  
[11:14 PM] Coyote: "Wren," Coyote says, setting his drink down. "I'm going to ask you an honest question, and I want you to appreciate I'm not yanking you around. So please give me an honest answer." He leans forward, his kufiyah cloaking his eyes in shadow. "How dangerous do you believe I am?"  
[11:15 PM] Wren: Wren stops mid-ramble. "...I mean you impaled me pretty hard."  
[11:17 PM] Coyote: There is no humor in Coyote's expression. He does not speak, but instead waits for Wren to continue. Tall and fit despite his years, he resembles an old oak that has weathered storm and fire, and when he steeples his hands before him it is like the earth snapping shut. Covered from head to toe, he all but fills the flowing cloth he never seems to remove.  
[11:20 PM] Wren: Wren expects a laugh. They expect a chuckle, a smirk, something that's at least humorous or flirty.

This is not what they had in mind. "I mean...pretty lethal? Maybe?"

They've never actually seen Coyote in action. At least, not in combat. But that arm and their totem? They would assume something fierce. At least fiercer than a tiny little wren.  
[11:22 PM] Coyote: "I could kill everyone in this room," Coyote says, his voice low and soft like a knife sliding out of its sheath. "At the compound earlier today I could have kept the Dragonblooded at bay and allowed you all to escape, should it have been necessary. I am, quite likely, one of the most deadly people in this entire city." He leans back. "I am nothing compared to some in the Silver Pact."  
[11:22 PM] Wren: "...Oh."  
[11:27 PM] Coyote: "Let me share with you some names," Coyote goes on. "Amatha Kinslayer, who survived escaping the Realm at its peak and undermined it without ever being found. Raksi, a monster whose sorcerous powers are only matched by her cruelty. Ma-Ha-Suchi, who lived before the Shogunate existed and waged war upon it until the Great Contagion laid it low."

He picks up his drink again, draining the glass. He pours himself another with the bottle by his side and swirls the contents for a time, as if seeking answers to questions within its depths.

"These and a handful of others are the true powers behind the Silver Pact. And while they are sparing in their demands, when they're made they are not easily ignored."  
[11:29 PM] Wren: "I thought the Silver Pact was some random coalition of self-important tribal lunatics that happened to have superpowers. Not...whatever this is."

Then they realize something else that Coyote mentioned.

"Wait did you say 'Lived before the Shogunate'?"  
[11:31 PM] Coyote: Coyote's smile is not a pleasant one. "They are old, Wren. Old and powerful. You can resist their orders, for a time, but if you accept then you're expected to see them through. And if you run?" He takes another sip. "You'd best keep running."  
[11:41 PM] Wren: "How does...I...hm. HRM." Wren keeps trying to say something back, but instead they just wind up slapping the air. They open their mouth again, only to grunt and lean on their hand. "Mmm. MMM."

Coyote really isn't one to lie. And he's not particularly gullible. Which means either they're really good liars, or...

They just pout. They cross their arms and clench their hands hard enough to dig into the skin. They scratch at their arms, a bit too fast for comfort before it actually begins to draw blood.

They pause. They notice the wound on their arm, before they quickly just put their hands down. They hadn't done that for a while.

"So they would just crush us like ants if we tried to leave."  
[11:47 PM] Coyote: "Fear the Anathema, for they have stolen the power of the gods. Reject the temptations of the moon-maddened beasts, for they shall drag you down into destruction. Beware, oh ye faithful of the Dragons! Beware!" This time Coyote's smile is wry. "The Immaculates may have been more right than they knew. But no, I doubt they'd be so blatant. At least to begin with."

He slides the bottle over to Wren and nabs a glass from a passing server. The offer is obvious, as is the sentiment in which it is given.

"More likely they'd put pressure on us. After all, if we're not willing to aid the Pact then why should the Pact aid us? And who knows when we might need help? Could even be when we're not one hundred miles from Champoor." He sighs and adjusts his kufiyah, and Wren can see his eyes clearly again. "Every one of us is mostly left to our own devices, but we're always stuck knowing the debts we owe."  
[12:02 AM] Wren: It takes a minute to really sink in. It takes a little bit longer to have the implications spread into their mind, as they trace their finger across the glass and finally drag their nails across the table.

Then they slap the glass from the table, and it hits the ground with a loud shatter. "Fuck that." They hiss. They lean across the table. "They don't fucking control me. I'm not some fucking pawn for their games. And I am sure as fuck not going to just kowtow because I am just using some fucking powers! Oh, I can turn into a bird, I can be hot, but I am not about to just sit down and let them think they run me like I'm some cheap two-bit whore! I'm not some trash to be thrown at a problem! I earned my fucking strengths! If they think that lets them run me then they got another thing coming and fuck them! Fuck them and fuck you!"

They're hyperventilating in a way that they haven't in a long, long time. They push themself up, dust themself off. "Now excuse me, I am going to do what I do best. You can brood or something I don't fucking care. Fuck you."

Finally, they leave. They look over their shoulder every few steps, obviously looking for something out of Coyote. Some kind of response.  
[12:05 AM] Coyote: Coyote doesn't flinch with the glass shattering, doesn't stand up as Wren walks away. He just raises his drink, a toast to Wren and their bold declarations, and gives them a genuine smile that even manages to reach his old, sad eyes.  
[12:12 AM] Wren: This somehow gets Wren even angrier. They hiss at Coyote, before they finally push their way out of the building and towards the street. Perhaps it's for the best that Wren threw a tantrum rather than incriminate themself further or something equally petty and foolish.  
[12:13 AM] The Rookrook: On the streets nobody notices Wren. They're too busy talking in hushed tones under shawls and rain-capes about Tenepeshu this, the Five Fingers that, Prasad there...

In rainy Champoor this night, they're just another sad, wet bird.


	6. Snake in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orochi and Sinla have a chat. Takes place the morning after Inhale.

  
The Lady's Smile is no less lovely in the dun wash of predawn light. Gone are the kaleidoscopic screams of color and breathable smoke. Its great chambers and stages lie empty at this hour. Lushly intricate windows and skylights filter the gray light bottle-green, making the painted reliefs and dance floors a melancholy hue. What little noises there are bounce echoes of sound through the main dance hall.

A young boy hunches wearily in a booth in the empty dance hall, engrossed in a book. He wears the bright colors of the club's employees - a bright blossom standing starkly out amidst the room's dull tones.  
[9:42 PM] Orochi: There's something always a little unnerving about places like this being empty, places where people come to congregate and mingle, to drink and drown their sorrows, that should be full of laughter and chatter and music standing desolate. Standing silent. Standing hollow. Like everyone's just walked off-stage for a moment and will be back in a second. Like everyone's waiting, just out of sight. Watching you from your blind spots. It's a kind of crawly spiders-down-the-spine feeling. An almost haunted feeling-  
[9:42 PM] Orochi: When it's just you and the ghosts.  
[9:44 PM] Orochi: The man sits across from the boy, a figure all in shades of white, trimmed in silver. Coat pooling around him like so much milk, hat canted at a slight angle, casting everything from the nose up in shadow. Clothes unmarred by sweat, the muddy road, by anything but a few drops of morning drizzle.  
[9:49 PM] The Rookrook: It's a minute before there's any sound but the turning of the thick book's pages, a scratchy-smooth rasp that fills the chamber. Then the book closes. Sinla sets it down. He sighs, looks up. "Good morning, Orochi."

He looks like hell - his chin is wrapped in gauze, his cheeks and neck are covered in the residue of dried poultices, and you don't think he slept more than a few hours--if any at all. And it's obvious he's on edge around Orochi.  
[9:52 PM] Orochi: Pointed, darkened nails close around the brim of his hat, the man gently lifting the thing and setting it on the table. Revealing features that were almost feminine, almost disarmingly delicate if they weren't so remote. He combs his other hand through his long, straight, dark hair and smiles slightly at the boy. "Good morning, Sinla. Do you have a moment to talk?"  
[9:52 PM] Orochi: "We haven't really had the chance for a frank discussion yet."  
[9:53 PM] Orochi: "And really, that's not the kind of thing one should put off. Especially between partners."  
[9:55 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla smiles, a broken, porcelain crescent, something sharp in a face so soft. "As you can see," he gestures with one delicate hand to the empty chamber, "I am so very busy this morning."

He chuckles weakly, trying not to show how nervous he is. His eyes are red from crying. "What would you like to talk about?"  
[9:58 PM] Orochi: For a moment Orochi is silent. For a moment Orochi is still, slitted, scarlet eyes studying the boy's face. Lingering on his injuries. And it takes Sinla a moment, a minute, to realize what's different from normal: the man isn't smiling. The carefully composed facade is...if not gone necessarily then set to the side for the moment, resting by his elbow along with his hat.  
[9:58 PM] Orochi: He reaches into a pocket of his immaculate coat and pulls a small, empty bottle from within. He sets it on the table between them, pointed nail resting on the stopper.  
[10:00 PM] Orochi: "About a small number of things. The future terms of our relationship, what we can expect from each other. What I desire and what you desire. We are partners now, as I said. Although firstly..." he tilts the glass vial from side to side, his voice mild but...dispassionate, almost disinterested, "I do believe congratulations are in order."  
[10:01 PM] Orochi: "In many cultures killing your first man is cause for some celebration."  
[10:05 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla stares at Orochi. A few tears well--but only a few. There's not many left. He blinks them away, and visibly considers his words. "Thank you for the gift," he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.  
[10:08 PM] The Rookrook: He looks at the bottle like it's a bomb. Red eyes zeroed in.  
[10:08 PM] The Rookrook: "I..." He starts to say something, but chokes on the words.  
[10:09 PM] Orochi: And Orochi just...waits, hands taken from the bottle and folded in front of him. He doesn't rush to console the child. He doesn't continue on as if it wasn't happening. He just waits patiently until he's composed himself.  
[10:12 PM] The Rookrook: It takes a minute. The sound of his breathing, of his swallowing air and saliva and sobs, are impossible to not hear. Eventually Sinla gathers himself. "My apologies," he croaks in a dry voice. "W-what--what do you. Expect from me?"  
[10:12 PM] The Rookrook: He's a polite boy, he is. Remembering his manners. Smart, too. It doesn't pay to be rude to snakes.  
[10:20 PM] Orochi: "Your cooperation in the days to come. Governor Adlahkta is dead, ostensibly at the hands of Cakori Buno and I took steps to ensure that Buno's actions would be discovered. Not the rapes, unfortunately. The powers that are will often house and clothe such a man, without every once looking towards the broken things he leaves in his wake. But a thief?" And here there is a...it's not a laugh, not really, more like a gentle exhale through the nose, but there's the sense that it's the closest Orochi ever gets to genuine amusement. "Never. And Buno was stealing quite a large sum of precious materials and holy metals from Prasad. The evidence will be found presently, if it hasn't already. Your father's death attributed to a botched attempt to conceal his crimes. He will be arrested, dragged to the capital and executed."  
[10:20 PM] Orochi: "Champoor will be spared Prasadi depredations in the near future."  
[10:20 PM] Orochi: "But...not indefinitely, and there are other factions that desire control of the city in the meantime."  
[10:21 PM] Orochi: "I am one."  
[10:21 PM] The Rookrook: "Why?"  
[10:22 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla bites his cheeks the moment he asks it. He didn't mean to--it just came out. But that look he gives Orochi--it's unease, and it's fear, and it's revulsion. But it's also curiosity.  
[10:23 PM] The Rookrook: "Why do you... why would you do all this? I don't understand." His small hands ball into fists on the polished hardwood table.  
[10:26 PM] Orochi: "Because I care for this city, in my own way," He replies mildly, no offense taken, no hint of ire drawn, "Because Governor Adlahkta and Cakori Buno were my enemies as well as yours. Because you are valuable, a potential asset, and while I could simply devour you and wear your skin for a time or rewrite the underpinnings of your mind your willing, active cooperation is more valuable and more convenient."  
[10:27 PM] Orochi: "And because I find myself somewhat...curious."  
[10:27 PM] Orochi: "In a certain sense you are much like us."  
[10:28 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla keeps his composure until those last words. He flinches. Wilting under Orochi's slit-eyed gaze. "I'm not like--"  
[10:28 PM] The Rookrook: He cuts himself off, exhaling raggedly.  
[10:29 PM] The Rookrook: No, he can't say that, now, can he? His hands aren't clean. He's admitted as much.  
[10:31 PM] Orochi: "...We are, each of us, two selves," he says softly, not unkindly, a note of something that's so very like gentleness in his voice, "There is the life we lived before and then there is the Anathema we became. Once we were human. Only human. Once we were the kind of people that you could have passed in the market without a second look, one among uncounted thousands in a hundred different cities and nations. But that life, with its joys and many sorrows is no longer ours."  
[10:31 PM] Orochi: "Now we live in moonlight."  
[10:32 PM] Orochi: "And dwell within an empty sky."  
[10:32 PM] Orochi: "You want to help the people of Champoor," it's not a question.  
[10:32 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla nods. He dares not breathe.  
[10:33 PM] The Rookrook: He watches with wide, enraptured eyes, as if watching the moon rise - or seeing it for the first time in truth.  
[10:33 PM] Orochi: "I have no objection."  
[10:34 PM] Orochi: "And will provide you with the means and resources to do so."  
[10:34 PM] Orochi: "Provided your continued cooperation."  
[10:35 PM] Orochi: A pause, he tilts his head to the side by bare degrees, "We are together in this, us more so than the others who care little for this place, if at all. If you treat with me as you have done thus far I will treat with you in kind."  
[10:36 PM] Orochi: "If you wish to align yourself with another instead that is your prerogative, but we will no longer be allies and I will no longer have any particular interest in what becomes of you."  
[10:36 PM] Orochi: "If you attempt to betray me you will become an obstacle, and be dealt with appropriately."  
[10:37 PM] Orochi: "Do you understand?"  
[10:40 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla nods. He draws breath again--just one. He works his jaw, chewing the words he is about to say. "I tried to do the right thing. Now, my father is dead, and in my chest is a great pain," he says thickly. "I have no way out but through, and my hands will become yet fouler. I do not know if I did the right thing."

He sets his jaw. He does it the same way as his father. It would be inspiring, his strength, if it wasn't coming from a sad little boy.  
[10:40 PM] The Rookrook: "... Orochi?"  
[10:40 PM] The Rookrook: "What makes someone a monster?"  
[10:49 PM] Orochi: And the snake...blinks. And then he smiles slightly and it isn't like the others, it isn't that composed, well-mannered thing Sinla's seen so much before. There's something jagged in it. Something gentle. Something a bit bemused. Something venomous and eagerly anticipatory. A curve of the lips, a sly smirk but there's something approving to it despite that. Something sincere.

"A monster is one who warps the world around them. Who catches all others in their current and forces them to swim with the flow or endlessly fight the tide. Monsters are wounds in Creation, divine beasts bound only by what they wish to be bound by. Defying all else. You, Sinla Adlahkta are not a monster."  
[10:50 PM] Orochi: He stands and gently picks up his hat, placing it on his head. His features abruptly shadowed again but that smile, that smile is still there.  
[10:50 PM] Orochi: "Not yet."  
[10:52 PM] The Rookrook: Sinla considers that. He's still grieving, still guilt-wracked--but for all that the Lunar's words seem to have struck a chord in the precocious boy. "I see. Thank you... partner."

He smiles too, mirroring the sad, honest slash across the man's face. "I trust you will tell me, if I become one. If I become like you."  
[10:53 PM] Orochi: "Of course," he replies, "Partner."  
[10:56 PM] The Rookrook: As the snake in white leaves, out of the corner of his eye he sees Sinla resume his reading. The book is written in High Realm. It's a grimoire - an anthology with illustrations and stories of demons, rasksha, ghosts and elementals. It's a book of monsters.

Open to a page where, in washes of delicate ink, coils an eight-headed wyrm.  
[10:56 PM] The Rookrook: ---


	7. Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coyote checks in to Orochi's clinic. Set directly after "Snake in the Garden".

  
Civilization's trappings are such strange, funny things. The borders and demarcations that people establish range from the paper thin to the outright intangible, but are still steel-keen for all that. Their sharpness all but palpable. Wealthy districts where the half-drowned and downtrodden dare not walk. Poorer boroughs where the wealthy dare not be seen without a sinewy, thick-armed escort. Certain shops that you may or may not enter depending on your alliance, for your sake as much as theirs.

Locked doors.

In fairness it's not as if the good doctor could have really expected anything as flimsy as a metal mechanism to keep out anyone truly determined (and truthfully, he didn't) but it's still a bit of a jarring feeling, a missed step in the darkness, a mildly unpleasant twist, when he opens the door in the early hours of a grey Champoori morning, fresh come from the Lady's Smile, and sees a stray dog's made itself quite at home in his clinic.  
[7:12 PM] Coyote: Coyote's smile is broad enough to take in the world, and shows a disturbing amount of sharp teeth that shouldn't belong in a proper human mouth. Regardless of dubious canine qualities it's obvious that he's fully aware of what he's done, having settled himself in one of the clinic's few chairs with a book in hand. One of Orochi's books, by the look.

He rises with one smooth motion, pausing only a moment to brush off his sirwal, and extends his arms wide.

"What a surprise to see you here!" he says, still holding that book in one hand. "How fortunate we find ourselves today."  
[7:17 PM] Orochi: It's rewarding, in it's own way. Seeing that flicker beneath the facade, the touch of genuine irritation beneath the porcelain perfection in the moment before the emotion's smoothed over. There's precious little here that isn't false in some way. Precious little that's actually sincere. Coyote wasn't sure the first time he stepped foot in the clinic but he's had more than enough time to satisfy his curiosity and it's hard to say if this place has ever seen a patient. It's too neat. Too clean. Too sterile. Too empty.

No desperate cases in the night, lining up in the alleyway outside his door. No stained linens, clotted bandages. No stains on the immaculate floor from blood and bile and other, even less pleasant things. It is, in every respect, an utterly perfect facsimile of a physician's office and ward. Absent every trace of the illness and malady that serve to justify its existence.  
[7:18 PM] Orochi: Orochi stands in the doorway, rain dripping from the edge of his hat.  
[7:18 PM] Orochi: His eyes narrow fractionally.  
[7:19 PM] Orochi: But then he steps across the threshold, slipping his coat from his shoulders and it's all as it should be again. He is the good doctor, this is his place of business, and Coyote is a moderately unruly patient.  
[7:20 PM] Orochi: Untrue, inaccurate, and woefully understated respectively but, ah, such is life. Where is any man without his polite fictions?  
[7:21 PM] Orochi: "The clinic isn't open yet," he says mildly, "Still, I can handle an early examination."  
[7:22 PM] Orochi: "I assume that slim thing you're always with is involved somehow."  
[7:23 PM] Coyote: "Wren? Oh, no. They got quite angry once I informed them of what the Silver Pact is actually like. Haven't spoken to me since." He looks at the book in his hand. "But while we're asking questions, where in all of Creation did you find a book of House Nellens romantic poetry?"  
[7:25 PM] Orochi: "This is Champoor," he says with a small smile as he closes the door behind him. A silvery-white specter, highlighted by bars of grey light, framed by dark stone and dark wood. "When people say that anything can be obtained here, they do mean anything. Not just flesh and narcotics."  
[7:29 PM] Coyote: "Well," Coyote begins, his smile wry. "When compared against such illustrious vices I suppose I can't find much fault in fiery rhetoric disguising itself in verse. But then, I always did appreciate House Nellens." He sets the book aside and reaches behind the chair, pulling forth a bottle of something amber. "Care for a morning libation?"  
[7:34 PM] Orochi: There's a moment of silence. A soft, quiet sigh. No anger, no, no real frustration. A flash of muted curiosity maybe. A glimpse of something almost like aggravation. But it's hard to tell, really, when so much of it is constructed. A careful composition, a sketch of the unflappable chirurgeon in his place of work when they both know that such is far, far from the truth.  
[7:34 PM] Orochi: An actor on a painted backdrop, wearing a mask and carrying props.  
[7:35 PM] Orochi: Living a role.  
[7:35 PM] Orochi: "What is it you want, Coyote?"  
[7:38 PM] Coyote: "Peace and goodwill across Creation, with the blessings of the Dragons upon all with none living under the yoke of tyranny," he says, still smiling that canine smile with his too sharp teeth. For a moment his shadow seems to blur, taking not the shape of a man but of some towering horned monster looming over the room. But then the light shifts, and there is nothing but Coyote, still holding the bottle. "But right this moment I was just hoping you and I could have a little chat."  
[7:41 PM] Orochi: "My my, you really are an ambitious sort aren't you? But we're all allowed our dreams." Orochi makes no move to take it. Beneath his robes something shifts, a glimpse of blue-black and silver-trimmed scales winding around one wrist. A forked tongue wagging as a serpent coils about a limb. "Speak then."  
[7:47 PM] Coyote: "Ambitious?" Coyote says, tilting his head. "Oh, I wouldn't say so. I mean, the old goat did, but it wasn't for that."

He reaches behind the chair again and pulls out two clay mugs, both of plain but sturdy make, and pours the amber liquid into them. The scent of fine liquor, like perfumed smoke, clashes with the sterile antiseptic smell of the clinic in a way that briefly makes Coyote's nose curl. He swiftly recovers, however, and held up his cup to Orochi. The other remains on the floor, an open invitation.

"Let's start with the basics, as I'm already being incredibly rude and invading your privacy. Which House did you come from?"  
[7:51 PM] Orochi: "I don't see how that's any of your concern. Or of any real value to you," he says smoothly, seamlessly and it's flawless (too flawless, Coyote's getting under his skin and the artificiality is bleeding through, rote-learned things, created through merciless repetition and endless practice slipping to the fore). "Although I do have to question your motives, if you came here just to irritate me."  
[7:59 PM] Coyote: "Not just that, no. See, I figured you were from the Isle, or at the very least one of the satrapies. You've had a Dynastic education, obvious to anyone who's had the same. And I thought to myself 'Perhaps this fellow and I might reminisce about the good old days.' But, seeing as you aren't interested, I'll get more to the point."

He takes a sip of his drink, and when his hand lowers his eyes are no longer full of mirth, but rather a hard edge. They flash briefly in the pale morning light, a brief but terrible fire. Like the shine of a blade being drawn, ready to slit a throat.

"I'd appreciate knowing what exactly you plan to do with Champoor now that there's all this nice, abundant chaos to take advantage of. Seems to me it's a perfect situation for one like yourself. Mayhaps even a little too much so."  
[8:04 PM] Orochi: "Ah." He says and he...relaxes.

He breathes. He tips his head and he smiles and even if it's entirely-too-picture-perfect-sincere it's still a smile. Because he gets it now. Because he understands now. Because it's not an interrogation on his threshold anymore, like some child come home entirely too late. Because he knows what Coyote wants and he knows, at least some, of what he knows and doesn't know and it's like finding firm ground beneath fast-flowing water. It's own kind of relief.  
[8:07 PM] Orochi: "No, actually, I had nothing to do with her death. I would never have been so reckless as to be in the room as it happened."  
[8:08 PM] Orochi: "For now I'm much like...well. Everyone else I suppose. Interested in stabilizing and securing as much of this city as I can, before the mob burns it down."  
[8:10 PM] Orochi: "But what do you care for Champoor? You've been here for less than a week and I expect in another two or three you'll be gone again. I can't imagine the particulars matter to you."  
[8:15 PM] Coyote: Coyote stares at Orochi for a long moment, his glass before him but his other hand near his belt. Those sharp eyes seem to bore into the other man, like the slowly growing pressure of a knife. The room grows heavy beneath that steely gaze, almost trembling beneath the force of his intent.

Then he sighs and sits back down in the chair.

"Damn," he mutters. "I figured, but I needed to hear you say it. Would have been nice to have this nonsense be simple for once."  
[8:17 PM] Orochi: "Mnm, I don't disagree," a roll of the wrist, an ambiguous motion as he slips past. Fetching a small tea-set from the office on the other side, "But you didn't answer my question, Coyote."  
[8:20 PM] Coyote: "Fair's fair," he replies before taking another sip of his drink. "I care because a lot of people are probably going to get hurt. When the powerful clash, the weak suffer. And there's enough pain going around as it is."  
[8:22 PM] Orochi: There's a frozen moment and out of everything, everything else that's happened that's what gets a faintly incredulous look. A bemused glance over the shoulder as the good doctor lights a small stove and puts the water on to slowly boil. "(My my)," he says, more to himself than anything, "(Imagine caring so deeply about something so ordinary.)"


	8. Hold Your Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third mainline session. This was hard to edit together because the scenes of Bian, and Coyote/Orochi etc. ran simultaneously. I tried to edit them together to maintain something of the continuity and tone. I hope you like it.

  
Word spreads. How could it not? By noon the next day it's all anyone's talking about, in hushed, disbelieving tones: Tenepeshu's dead. People stop talking when in the presence of Five Fingers people - but when the gangsters are gone, they start again. Louder. They look side to side, and say it again: Tenepeshu's dead. They sound excited.

The fog has cleared and the rain has stopped. The sun has come out, a single chip of warmth slowly drying the cobbled streets and bazaars. But there's no relief. The air crackles with energy. Peals of thunder roll from an encroaching wall of thunderheads, black as obsidian. Multicolor lightning flickers in the clouds. Crackaboom. Crackaboom.

Crackaboom, comes the knock on Orochi's front door. It's Jangma, with scratch marks on his cheek - and not the fun kind. He's breathing heavily like he ran here, uphill all the way from Lighthouse District.

"Twenty four hours. You have twenty four hours," he says wheezily. "I've called in every favor I got. But after that people are going to move--Jeyen Te thinks Prasad did it and he's ready to slaughter the entire imperial office. If he does that, we're all going down. And I can't stop him."

Not yet, goes unspoken.

  
He stands in the threshold, immaculate and untouched, with one black nailed hand on the open door. He stands in the threshold, layered in lovely white shades and silver threads despite the still, stagnant air, despite the heat, despite the way some of the streets ripple with distortion. He stands in the threshold and looks at his...they are friends, aren't they? With a warm pleasant smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, with eyes that can't quite manage to be completely indifferent, a flicker of something as base, as banal as concern behind that bloody red. Not for the news. For the serpent.

He takes a slow step back. "Come in."

  
He makes tea.

  
"It's funny, in it's own way really," he says as he quietly pours an aromatic cup for the still slow-panting storm-god, the inside of his clinic cool and dark, "At this point I think the Prasadi delegation is one of the only ones we've decisively eliminated. More or less."

  
"I'll do what I can Jangma, but I'm only a physician, not a miracle worker."

  
"And right now I don't have an answer that won't make the city explode."

  
"Are you ready? If it comes to that?" When it comes to that.  
  
The storm that is a serpent looks at the snake that is a man. "Well," Jangma says with a grin, "I guess we'll find out."

"I always did like a good explosion." He sips his tea.

\---

This time they all meet in the clinic. Filing in one by one--except for Curio, who's off... somewhere.

As they all sit, a talon-captain of Orochi's hisses in his ear that last night the treasury of the Prasadi delegation was emptied out completely. How, he has no information of.

Coyote breathes out sharply, hands folded over his stomach. "Well, this isn't really that great a surprise. It's honestly been a miracle we haven't had a riot already."

Wren says nothing, but they say a million things with a glare towards Coyote. Perhaps they shouldn't hate the messenger, but it's hard to pin the blame on something they have no frame of reference for.

So instead they're settling for the silent treatment. Like a scorned brat.

A glance toward Wren shows Coyote knows how they feel, but the most they get from him is a sigh.

Bian's eyes widen. "Someone went after the Prasadi delegation?" she asks, gesturing with her cigarillo. "This can't be a coincidence. I've been hearing rumours all day that they're blaming Prasad - and something like this is made to stir things up!"

Wren rests their head on a hand. They try to keep the bird they flip discreet.

It's not, but there is an attempt.

  
It's the first time they've seen one, these other Lunars, the first time they've seen one of the things (the men? The monsters.) he's made. Unveiled by rain, by darkness, by the shadows of a Champoori night. Like and unlike the beastblooded people who inhabit the city, immigrants of a thousand kingdoms. A rippling cascade of blue-green scales beneath a rain-cape, a body of sinewy cabled muscle, backbent legs and lanky arms. A saurian jaw, a fanged maw. Something of a river-god to it, something of an aquatic reef-beast. Something ethereal, alien to it and something primordial, a nightmare from deep history.

  
You can still see the razor-thin, meticulous surgical scars on the talon-captain's collarbone.

  
"Even if we could kill Jeyen Te, a difficult proposition on such short notice, it's a bandage on a bloody gut-wound."

Bian seems distracted, staring at the talon-captain. "Yes, yes, uh... sorry, can you say that again?"

"That's essentially what we've been doing this whole time," Coyote says, noting the strange subordinates Orochi has under his command but not commenting on them. Only a slight deepening of his scowl reveals his thoughts. "The dam's breaking and we've just been shoring it up."

  
"Even if we could kill Jeyen Te," he says patiently, politely, "It would not solve the fundamental problem."

  
"Coyote is correct."

Wren physically recoils at the appearance of the thing. They look it up and down.

Perhaps there was something distressing about how their first reaction was disgust, but their second was "Can I fit that inside me?"

Their third reaction was 'Ah, I said that out loud'.

  
There's a pause.

The woman laughs nervously. "Well, you certainly know how to break the ice," she says. "But you'll embarrass the poor boy."

"Y-yeah that was precisely what was I going for." Wren laughs.

"Just going for humor since things are kind of dire, as you do."

  
Orochi politely elects to ignore it, like a cockroach has scuttled across his plate, sat on its hind legs and said quite clearly "Fuck" before abruptly trundling off.

  
Because, really, what else are you going to do? It's all so absurd.

  
"Also, to further complicate matters, the Prasadi delegation's treasury was emptied out entirely. Possibly Cakori Buno, making good his escape."  
  
The talon-captain stares off into space. It's quite handsome, really. In its own terrifying way--not quite human, not quite snake, not quite anything.  
  
Nothing but perfectly sculpted flesh.

Bian jumps on the chance to talk about something - anything - else. "Are you sure he had the foresight to do that?" she wonders out loud. "You said he was terrified - he must have had it planned beforehand to pull it off, I think. And even then... how much money are we talking about?" Her blue-green nails tap against her cup. "Silver and jade are heavy. One person couldn't pull that off alone. It'd be impossible."

  
"Hm," Orochi allows after a moment's consideration, "That's all true. And Cakori Buno was not a man possessed of ah-"

  
"Particular foresight. If we're being frank."

  
"It could very well be our mysterious murderer, capitalizing on the internal strife of the Imperial Office. Or it could be wholly unrelated."

"So, we have two possibilities," Bian says. "One, he was part of some larger group. Or two, someone is pinning the blame on him." She tilts her head. "Or three," she adds slowly, "there's another possibility. Who has access to such things? Why, the Prasadi. It might be something they cooked up to blame Champoor."

"We're heading off into wild speculation now," Coyote cuts in. "Let's start with what we know. Sinla witnessed a sorcerous working eating away at Tenepeshu's statue, and the Prasadi treasury was emptied far quicker than it should have been if Cakori Buno is fleeing the city. What's the possible connection?"  
  
They remember the night where he fled. He ran off, wasted, into the endless glut of buildings and bad neighborhoods called the Sprawl--managing to rob the treasury would have been quite a feat. Near suicidal in difficulty.

Bian pales. "You... you don't think it could be the vengeance of Heaven for letting Tenepeshu die, do you?" she suggests nervously. "I remember stories from my childhood of the gods striking down cities where powerful spirits die. Perhaps the gods have," she folds her hands together, in a gesture that none of them recognise, "turned their backs on Champoor. Perhaps they are taking their payment in blood and in blood-money."

  
There's a brief pause.

  
Orochi thinks about the god he knows and something almost, almost, like a genuine smile curves up the corners of his mouth. Unnerving in its near wholesomeness. "I think that's unlikely."

"Might be that whoever murdered Tenepeshu wanted the Prasadi so beset they could take from them without issue," Coyote says. "Someone with enough sorcery to slay a great spirit in her own den could probably make off with the Prasadi treasury if they were distracted enough. So let's focus on that. Who in the city has that kind of power?"

"I think they'd have to be a sorcerer," Bian contributes. "So that rules out," she looks around the room, "well, most of us." She flashes a smile at Orochi that shows she's joking.

Wren would comment if they knew much about the power structures of Champoor. But alas, they don't.

They don't have a fucking clue about how the city is run. Just that they'd like to be anywhere else.

"The uh...Gold Pact?" They made it up but maybe that's an actual thing.

  
"That's not a thing," Orochi says mildly.

"Shit."

It was worth a shot.

Bian tilts her head, considering things. "Orochi," she says softly. "I don't know, I'm just putting it out there - but maybe the two things aren't related. And maybe it was that old goat-wolf who was behind Tenepeshu death. Maybe he wants a power vacuum here. After all, someone pulled the strings to make sure we all ended up here. Someone with a lot of pull in the Silver Pact."

Coyote brow furrows, and his lips twist into a deeper scowl. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"I've heard of some of the things he's done. Murdering an elemental to throw a city into chaos wouldn't even register," Bian says. Her voice is soft. Scared, even. She doesn't want this to come outside this room.

  
"Oh, it really wouldn't," his disciple says amiably, agreeably, but there's still that hint of a stillness to him, a feeling like the temperature lowering, the world slowing, as the sibilant hissing stops and the snake draws itself back into coils. The better to rear up and lash out. "But I think that eventuality is mercifully unlikely."

  
"After all."

  
"He would have just had me do it."

Coyote looks at Orochi for a long moment, recent memories flashing behind his eyes. Then, ever so slowly, he nods.

Bian looks like she's going to say more, like she's about to point out that trusting such an ancient monster is on the level is a fool's endeavour. But she doesn't. "I hope you're right," she whispers. "The old ones are... well, they're monsters."

  
"Of course they are."

  
The aren't we all? hangs unsaid, unspoken in the air.

  
A single, fragile moment, a hairline fracture between them and then the conversation moves past it, "Right now the information implicating House Nagara is really the only lead we have."

  
"And, worst comes to worst, they're an acceptable scapegoat. Hardly ideal but-"

  
"Well."

  
"Twenty four hours isn't much time to run a thorough investigation."

"I'm not sure the Nagara are enemies we want to make," Bian says, frowning. "They must have a plan. I don't think we should confront them. They are either working for themselves, or someone else. If they are working for themselves - well, one does not kill Tenepeshu without a plan. And if they work for someone else, then this goes further than we think. After all," she crosses her lips, gesturing with her cigarillo, "if the Dead are involved, they can have their own plans."

She taps ash from her cigarillo.

"Now, it would be interesting to look around their places of power. And look for something that could tell us whether they did this on their own or for another - or if they did this at all. No?"

She looks between the others.

"So, perhaps you can look into that lady - while I break into their manor and see what things they're hiding."

Wren is staring at the ceiling. There was something about the dead going on. Or breaking into places.

"Yes. Sure." They mutter, then they check around. Nobody seems to be paying attention to them. Pretty easy, given they've only spoken when saying something hideously awkward.

And horny.

Because they're feeling that. They want to leave, and they want to get railed.

Nobody really notices them quietly push open a door, nor do they notice the tiny little bird hopping its way out of the room.

  
(curio) ((Episode 3 - Curio goes hunting))

Orochi probably suspects, others probably don't know: but there is a trail of yearning hearts and fevered dreams that follows the dainty footsteps of Curio. She herself definately doesn't know: she was never one to think twice about people she left behind; she was never one to think twice.

Then she ran across Cakori Bruno.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?" some man yells as a porcelain shell, bound in coils of many-colored ropes (as is an Ysyr fashion) stands on his windowsil. But he mellows out quickly: he can't hate her. She asks him a few questions, a few absurd questions - what is he to know about the matters of dragons, he is just a lousy barfly.

"Come back again!" some woman pleads as she moves across her life again. She dreamed of her often, of that beautiful shell; in truth, just telling her that she has not hear much of Cakori Bruno is a small price to see her again.

"You have some gall" the criminal declares, eyes narrow. She does not smile: she does not have a mouth. A few stinking centipedes drop from the ceiling, landing with a wet splash near the bandit's hands. He reconsiders, and tells her what she knows.

And so it goes. Through gutters and damp homes, trying to catch a scent.  
  
It's a stink in the soupy, electric air. It smells like old sex and fear. It smells like prey.

After a morning of terrorizing people, emptying alleyways and scouring bazaars, Curio follows the trail to a teahouse in Lighthouse District. Curio knows this place. It's Big Man's teahouse. A neutral ground.

Why is she doing this? The thought nags, bouncing around the inside of her skull like some insolent insect; no. She is one. What is it? Does not matter.

She needs to find him. She needs to...

For a moment, she stops, stays perfectly still. Focuses. Then releases the focus, and when that is done, she is no longer the white shell of Curio, but the devilishly handsome, bright-eyed Ysyr noble, Three-Wisdom Crowned. No, she is more than he ever was: he was pretty, like a bauble can be. She makes him radiant. His smile alone opens all doors.  
  
The teahouse is quiet. It's soft and luxurious, filled with the scents of a dozen nations, all brewed in Big Man's unique style. In his voluminous robes he glides about, from one patron to another. There are only two here today.

The first is the young noblewoman from the night of Tenepeshu's death, eyes damp with kohl and lips painted green. Isi Nagara. She sits in a corner, nose down in a book--and looks up as you enter.

"Good afternoon," Big Man says mildly in a voice like silk. "I'll be with you in a minute."

The other customer is one very hungover, very tired, Cakori Buno.

The woman looks at you, then Cakori, then Big Man. She closes her book and gets up to leave.

Curio-as-Three-Wisdoms-Crowned smiles.

There are many ways to capture a heart; some of them subtle, some of them violent, some of them not right for any person to ever call upon.

But Curio has no patience for any of it; no need for any of it. His heart is already hers, all that she has to do is to look at him. Smile. Yank.

"You've been looking for me" s/he says with the kind of confidence that does not recognize denial as a possibility.  
  
Big Man looks downright offended. "Excuse me," he says, "but this is my teahouse, and in this city it is a place where you cannot--"

"Yes. I... I have." Cakori's mouth hangs open. He looks miserable, like he could use a hug. Like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. The poor rapist. "I need you."

Isi Nagara rolls her eyes as she walks past. She opens the door and sneers over her shoulder, "Jangma not enough for you? Pathetic."

Normally, Curio would snap something back at her. Would turn her head. Give her a long look. But now, her words barely reach her. Her attention is fully on the man in front of her/him. The man that s/he needed to meet. The man... what does s/he want from him? For now, his heart.

S/he sits across him, safe distance: close enough to register as intimate, but not too close. But enough for him to feel her/his heat, presence. This sort of calm you feel only when you know you are in loving hands.

"You've suffered so much" s/he says and s/he means it! S/he made sure he did, after all.  
  
The noblewoman walks out. Nobody looks--Cakori has eyes only for Curio. The world's most exquisite shell. He leans forward, pheromones wisping through the air.

"I have," he whispers, with the conviction reserved for men who have never faced consequences before in their life. "I have so much--but it's okay. It's okay if it brought me to you."

Curio has his heart in her hands. Should she but ask, that would become literal.

S/he holds his hand. Like a lover. Like a mother. Like everything he has ever tried to take from others by force. If only his eyes could see what crawls beneath her/his feet. Oh if only. But he sees only what s/he allows him.

"I will make it all go away. All that pain and hardship" she promises. "But you must give me one little thing, one little truth."  
  
"Anything," he breathes.

The fly buzzing in her head stops, and for a moment, for a very brief, very painful moment, she remembers the dark laboratories in a distant land, and the fear and filth and shame and all the pain.

"Tell me" s/he asks "how does it feel to hold a life in your hand? Life as fine as a petty insect that it would take you nothing to crush... or let go?"  
  
"It's my favorite feeling in the world. I love the power. The absolute control." His pupils dilate, big as saucers. "The rush is like nothing else--because true power is the ability to destroy..."

He moans suddenly, a loud, intense sound.

"Please," comes a buzzing voice. It's Big Man. His eyes are open--he blinks, his inner eyelids shuttering like blinds. "Leave now."

Behind her/his smile, behind the warmth and comfort, Curio listens, and the mans speaks, she remembers.

The memories are a quagmire, are a thousand of little black hands suddenly grabbing at her ankles, thighs, at her chest and head, dragging her back into a world where air smells of sorcery, where the jungle thrumms with life, where there is a midden-heap by a grand palace, and on it: an unfinished toy, a discarded thing, thrown away with all the other garbage. There are insects that walk all over it, there is urine and blood and shit and all else that carries the powerless away. There is Curio.

And she can't allow herself to remember.

It's like cutting your own leg, but she has a hundred. She does not remember. No longer.

When Cakori looks at Three Wisdom Crowned, he sees no more beauty. He sees a smile and eyes like mirrors, and in them, he sees all that he is. And when s/he speaks, he understands. He must understand. Or else she will remember more, and he will die.

"Go" s/he commands. "Take nothing. Stand up, and leave, and run. Keep running. Stop for nothing and no one, not until you reach a land that you do not recognize, under stars that are unfamiliar, where nothing you ever held holds any meaning. Where you are naked, and powerless, where you are nothing. Then stop, and stay, and live, and some day die."

His/her smile fades away. The last warmth is wiped from the perfected mirror of his soul.

"Or stay, and meet the one that follows. She is not far."  
  
Cakori Buno looks up. He sees himself. He faces the truth of what he is for one horrible, sane moment.

His screams as he flees are the sound of a soul that finds such conditions of absolute sanity intolerable.

Three-Wisdom-Crowned fades away slowly, like a bad dream. Cakori Buno is no more. The memory he brought forward is no more.

"NO MORE" screams Curio sitting his place, as if to force away an evil ghost. She does not feel much lighter.  
  
Big Man faces Curio. He is frowning, his beady eyes glittering with tears and with fury. Dimly, she recalls Orochi mentioning that Big Man always smiles.

A head with a mouth--mandibles--extends from his mouth, glistening with saliva. It speaks with two voices that are two hundred voices:

"You have ruined my peace, filthy thing. No more is this an abode of neutrality. You have ruined it all. Leave me lest I destroy you on the spot."  
  
The drone is an overwhelming thing. Curio is not a woman easily disturbed--but instantly she exits. She doesn't look back.  
  
\---

  
  
\---

No one notices a seagull in Champoor. The things are everywhere. They come for the water, and to feast off the garbage thrown into the polluted harbours. This one overhead isn't local, but no one cares. One white gull is much like another, and the only thing that would have this far Western gull stand out - its cry - isn't happening.

It circles the manor, eyes beady as it takes in the grounds. There are servants out in the rain, laboriously trimming the mossy lawns, nearly naked. The poor don't deserve clothing if they're just going to drip water inside. Ancient statues litter the grounds, made to look like ancestors - but they're much more valuable than the actual Nagara ancestors. Their faces have been stolen and claimed as a noble heritage, like so much of Champoor as it pretends to propriety.

The gull lands on the roof, by one of the chimneys, and finds one which isn't lit. Then the gull isn't a gull; it's a mouse that lets itself drop down the unlit, un-smoking chimney, until it crawls down the wall into a fireplace that hasn't even been prepared for this evening.

Then the mouse is a woman, in sober blacks and whites. She hasn't got Bian's face - she looks like a local. Like the non-existent sister, maybe, of one of the other serving staff who Bian saw here earlier today. Enough that someone who doesn't really pay attention to the staff might get a vague sense of familiarity.

The woman is smiling to herself. She's having fun.

\---  
  
There is the city, and then there is the town. There is the edifice of today, and the foundation of yesterday. There is Champoor, and then there is Champoor. The city of old soapstone and old money, of glory reduced to a once-upon-a-time.

Jade Way, so named for what once lined (or so they say) its boulevards, is on the highest ground in the city of Champoor, in brooding repose and disrepair. Great manors of dark wood, once luxurious, flaking and rotting. It's not moldy; it's mold. It's not fallen; it's a fall.

The Nagara manor is a three story complex lined with poplars and dark grass, the lawn untrimmed for so long as to be a jungle.

The good doctor and the lawman knock on the front door.  
  
A butler opens the great double doors before their fists come down. He's an older man--with skin like mahogany and a shaved head covered in swirling henna tattoos.

"Yes?" he asks, faintly annoyed already.

  
Hand to the top of his head, the serpent on his stoop lifts his hat and presses it to his chest. Long, straight, dark hair falling to the shoulders of his white coat. A smile to slit your wrists on. "Is the Lady Isi Nagara in today? We have a small matter to discuss."

A shard of sunlight through the grey murk, the bruise-colored clouds. The man is still a painting, something picked out in delicate brush strokes and with careful craft. It seems as if even the walk to the door should have dirtied him, should have stained him, like it's unbearable irresponsible that he's not sitting behind a frame but here is, on the steps.

  
But, of course, he is utterly untouched by anything so simple, so mundane, as dust and mud.

Coyote is a lean figure garbed in flowing cloth, a subtle affectation that hides the grace he walks with. At least, to the unobserving eye. After all, a clumsy man could not wear such garments without tripping over himself. And if one were paying attention, they might see that there is no mud on his hem, and barely any on his boots. But how is such a thing possible?

There were no answers to such questions on Coyote's face. What little can be seen under his kufiyah, in any event. White hair hidden behind the headdress, save for the short beard that further obscures his visage.

"Won't take but a moment of your time," he says. "Just need to check in on something."

This isn't the first manor she has been in. Nor the tenth. And many of them, she's been dressed in... well, there's always a different style. Some new way for the mighty to make sure their lessors are obviously lesser. In Markay, they must dress in undyed cotton. In the satrapy of Alabi, a green sash. In decadent Gem, there are aristocrats who demand their servants go unclad - that only the wealthy can be more than human animals.

But they always want the head lowered, the eyes guarded, the tongue stilled. And so that's what she does, as she carries a half-full sack of laundry in both arms, moving like she knows where she's going.  
  
Bian walks through the empty house to the wing of the personal quarters. Where Coyote and Orochi go up, she stays on the ground floor. To her left and to her right are three personal quarters--the doors all unlocked.

Every room, all of them empty, is immaculately maintained. Beds made, shelves dusted, floor scrubbed. It's all just-so. Portraits hang over every headboard.

She pauses, in the manner of a servant looking for work to be done. But of course, that's not what she's really looking for.  
  
Bian sees plenty of jewelry. In boxes and in drawers, laid out on pillowcases. Finding it's the easy part. It's not the problem.

The problem, she realizes with a shiver up her spine, is that all of these rooms haven't been lived in for a long time. They're cleaned but unoccupied. The only signs of life in them are the portraits above the beds, and those portraits are very old indeed.

Her smile is not entirely pleasant. The smile of a woman who sees the joke.

A family of powerful necromancers, who dwell in a decaying estate and don't seem to sleep in their own beds. And not in the sense that Wren, say, doesn't sleep in their own bed. In a city that never sees the sun.

It's the material of a Saatan blood-soaked drama.

Outside, because the weather has a sense of melodrama, there's a flash of lightning through the eternal rain. It paints long shadows across her face through the streaky windows. Moments later comes the boom.  
  
There's a rustling of wind in the room. The door swings shut, slowly, then suddenly at all at once.

"My, my. My, my, my, my. What have we here? A little cat come in from the storm."

The figure in the painting moves. It's an old woman, in fine robes that were fashionable four hundred years ago. She smiles thinly with acrylic lips and speaks with a voice like dust.

"I'm s-s-sorry, mistress," the maid stammers. "I... I was told that I n-needed to make sure all the laundry had been collected from these rooms. I'm n-n-new here and... and... no offence meant, ma'am."  
  
"Mm... so you say. But I've had the same maid for thirty years. As head of the family, I get to do that, you see." The woman in the painting taps her lips with withered fingers, and raises an opium pipe. She leans forward. The painting bulges.

"What are you doing in my quarters?"  
  
Bian can feel the temperature dropping. The room seems smaller; like it's shrinking, or the air is being sucked out.

"C-c-collecting laundry," Bian lies shamelessly. Oh, she's so scared; oh, she's a woman in over her head who was p-p-probably pranked by the other maids who pulled this on the newcomer. Look at her cower, look at her cringe; this innocent girl from a poor Champoor family who's never had a wicked thought in her life.  
  
For a moment, the woman in the painting says nothing. It gets harder and harder to breathe. The painting bulges until Bian is sure it will rip.

"Bah! Fine!"

The woman leans back into her painting with a huff, air flowing back into the now merely very creepy room. Bian can breathe again.

"Staff these days have no respect for elders, no professionalism. Back in my day this would never have happened! Kori's a good-for-nothing little..."

She rants for a solid five minutes about how Bian is ill-trained and how back in her day, the old days of Champoor where jade lights lit every street, this would never have happened, and you really ought to ask before you come in and you must worship properly next time, and so on and so forth.

  
"Yeah," Coyote says, following after him with nothing but the gentle flutter of his bisht to mark his presence. "I suppose we could always do with a bit more kindness in the world."

The door swings open, and a muffled groan turns into a high-pitched whine and the creaking of a bed.

Clothes are scattered across the floor; expensive silk and jewelry strewn across the carpet. There are just pieces worth more than most people will ever see all just scattered across the floor. The bed creaks with each thrust as the man on the bed arches his hips upwards, driving himself deep, deep deep into the person on top of them. The bed shakes with each thrust, with each grunt.

“Yeah you like that you f-fucking slut!” He grunts. His fingers are lined with glimmering golden rings.

And on top of him, bouncing with only their leggings and opera gloves left on is Wren, tongue lolling out of their mouth as they squeal with pleasure. “H-harder! Harder! If I can still walk, you’ve fucking-!”

The man wraps their hand around Wren’s front and squeezes them hard. They yelp in shock, before they squeal again. They almost bend over, before they notice the two men walking inside. They huff and puff, and oh wow they’re noticably enjoying this way more now that there’s an audience.

“H-hey!” They purr. “W-want to join in?” Another thrust, and they howl again.  
  
The man, handsome, with gelled hair and a deep tan, flushes dark at the sight of them. "What are you doing in my betrothed's room!? You rude cretins!"

  
There's a long. Long pause.

  
Orochi closes the door.

  
"(We'll wait in the hallway.)"

"W-wait b-b-betroth-" The man under them thrusts again, and their squeal is muffled as soon as Orochi closes the door.

"Classy," Coyote says, raising one eyebrow as Orochi closes the door. "Real classy."  
  
There's a thump from behind the closed door. An undignified - and not at all happy - squeal that sounds like Wren. With prodigious speed the door's open again, and the man has pants on. His dark eyes glitter.

"What do you want," he huffs.

Behind them, Wren is laying on the bed, face-down, ass up. They're panting into the bed, before they slowly move a single eye up. to see if this man's exhausted yet.

Not quite. They put their face back into the bed.

  
"Nothing from you," he says mildly, "We have business with your betrothed."

  
"You're free to return to your...distractions, with our apologies for the interruption."

Coyote pulls some rolled tobacco from the pocket of his kaftan, then pauses. He pulls another and holds it out to the man.

"Care for one?"  
  
"If you've business with my betrothed," he sniffs, "you've business with me. I am Luo Aalti, and Isi is my other half. Speak with her as you would me. So I repeat myself: what do you want?"

What a charming individual.

"Well, all right then," Coyote says, taking the tobacco back and putting it to his lips. There's a snap of his fingers, and suddenly the end is lit. "If that's how it is."

Wren faces up. That's...a surprise. They definitely didn't expect this man to actually have some importance.

Let alone to that lady from the other day, just before they met with Tenepeshu.

That was neat. Also they're still a bit sore. It'll be a little while before this man's tired out. If he's still in the mood.

They kind of hope he's still in the mood.

  
"Ah, but I can hardly complain. This does simplify things."

This is Orochi, this is the snake. An immaculate thing, a solid bar of silvery-white light cutting through the dust, through the murk of the dimly lit hall. What skin his clothes leave bare a pale tan, laced with blue-black scales in stripes and long, winding skeins. The top half of his face in shadow but for the faint gleam of bloody-red eyes. His voice is soft, his voice is gentle, his voice is not kind. It is the sound of a flickering tongue scenting the air and coils of steel-cabled muscle shifting.

  
"We're among the group commissioned by the good men and women of the Five Fingers to investigate the demise of the rain-goddess Tenepeshu."

  
"We did have a few questions for your betrothed, as she was at the compound the night of the incident."

  
"But."

  
"Since you do speak for her in all things."

  
"I suppose you can answer them just as well."

  
"Can't you?"  
  
Luo Aalti blinks. He twists his features into a defensive sneer, hiding - badly - his shock. "Of course I can! Ask away."

Wren glances upwards, terrified that they were pointed out. When they notice that Orochi hadn't outed them, they sigh in relief, then push their face right back down.

Coyote takes a deep inhale of the rolled paper, letting the smoke out in streams at the edges of his mouth. "We appreciate your cooperation."

  
A flash of color, a bright flare of emotion, it hits the man made from moonlight and does...nothing. There's just silence from the serpent. Just emptiness. A quiet that draws out, winding taut between them as he waits for the last echoes of the man's declaration to fade from the halls of this hushed, ancient house.

  
"Lord Kori Nagara -your soon to be father-in-law as I understand, congratulations- had audience with Tenepeshu the night of the incident. The Lady Isi Nagara was waiting in the antechamber without. We understand that the Firefly was gravely displeased about some matter. We are curious as to what it was, and why the Lady Nagara did not attend him in his audience."  
  
The shirtless noble blanches, then says, "Give me one moment."

  
"By all means."

  
"Take your time."  
  
He closes the door.  
  
Then, looking at Wren, he says, "We're leaving."

"W-what? So soon?" Wren perks their head up.  
  
"Now. Out the window. Come along!" He clamors over to the window, dragging Wren with him.

"W-wait-!" Wren yelps as they're dragged off the bed, still mostly-naked and right towards the window.

"You figure he's making a run for it?" Coyote asks, stamping out his tobacco on one gloved hand. "He seems the type."  
  
From the sounds of him trying to struggle through the window, it sounds like he's making a run for it.

  
"Oh absolutely," Orochi says out in the hallway, tugging the brim of his hat a little lower.

"You want I should drag him back in here?"

  
"Hrm. He's cowardly enough to run at the first sign of- well. Us."  
  
There's a thumping and the sound of a struggle, and through the closed doors Luo Aalti throws Wren out the window.  
  
They go bodily flying toward a shrub.

  
"So I suppose he's as good a place to start as any in terms of information."

"L-Look we can fuck in public if you so desire but what are you trying to accomplish-!" And then Wren, bare-assed and borderline naked Wren tumbles outside and into a shrub.

"Ah, hell with it." Coyote opens the door and steps into the room. "You really going to make me chase you down?"

And there's another yelp from just outside the window.

"My fucking dick!"  
  
One leg out the window, Luo looks at Coyote.

He smiles shamelessly as Wren screams. "What can I say?" he demurs. "It's part of my charm."

"You and your charm can stay in the building, thank you very much."  
  
"MmmmnahI'mgood."

He falls out the window and hits the ground with a sick crack and an undignified scream.  
  
From behind the Lunars comes laughter.  
  
The butler smiles. "Oh, thank you. Thank you for that, sirs," he says, wiping a tear from his eye with one gloved hand.  
  
"Isi just arrived. She'll be just a minute to yell at her big of a betrothed."

"Oh good," Coyote says. "Means I don't have to join the procession leaping out the window."

  
"Very convenient."

Wren pokes their head out of the shrub as soon as the man falls to see...well...

This.

They slowly shrink back into the shrub. They're going to have to pick up their shoes and loincloth from the bedroom later.

Or run out into the night naked.

Then again they might actually be fine with that.  
  
Orochi and Coyote come downstairs, and after a minute are joined by a very exasperated young woman, dressed in green and with thick makeup on. Isi Nagara sits on a backless couch.

"So. My idiot betrothed aside... what can I do for you?"

  
"Does he need a physician," Orochi asks politely, "That fall sounded painful."  
  
"No, he's fine!"

There's a wet scream from outside.

Isi smiles brightly. "See? Fine!"

"You've got to roll with your landing," Coyote says. "Just my advice."

Wren quietly slinks back inside, stretching their arms back and letting themself hang everything out.

They walk behind Orochi and Coyote, and give the woman a wave.

"Hey, a question. I left my loincloth back in the bedroom. Might I go get it? While I would love to go gallavanting into the night with my cock out and my ass in the breeze, I need to leave something to the imagination from time to time."

They shake their hips to emphasize the point.

  
"I-" there's a pause as Wren enters the room.

  
"I-" he begins again, breaking off again as the man outside screams.

He stares at the wall over Isi Nagara's head.

  
"(Excuse me.)" He says as he rises.

Coyote snorts, his amusement obvious as he shakes his head.

"I think this might be the most fun I've had since I arrived."

  
"My my," says the shadow, he and the half-lamed man alone in the garden, an ivory-clad ghost silhouetted against an ugly, unseemly sky. Luo Aalti's leg wrenched beneath him, the man's handsome features twisted in agony, watching sweaty and wide-eyed as the chiurgeon slips a dark leather wallet from within his coat, "You really didn't think this through at all did you?"

  
Click-crunch

  
Relief is the absence of pain.

  
-

Head down, innocent and beautiful, the Champoori girl listens, radiating aching vulnerability. And behind her reshaped face, Bian listens. And judges.  
  
The lady in the painting talks, and talks, and talks. She's one of the old, original heads of the family--a founder of the Nagara family, once part of the great trading cabal that saw Champoor the wealthiest city-state on the Dreaming Sea. She was a banker and canny merchant--Nuo Nagara.

She seems to be enjoying ranting at Bian. She enjoys exercising her not-inconsiderable power over the living, stuck as she is in the painting.

But that's just it. She's not going to be stuck in there forever. Why, just the other day, she went out for a delightful stroll. And with some more sacrifices, she'll be out forever. As will her pets.

From outside comes a scream, as if to punctuate the word.

"... well?" she says, having stopped some seconds ago. "Get back to work."

The door swings open.

"Of course, ma'am," and there it is again, the same weakness, the same submissiveness aimed towards the heart of the powerful. This is a woman who likes to see people grovel. Who likes it when the weak prostrate themselves before her, who likes the fear of her lessers.

And who is lesser than this young, new girl whose chest is heaving with fear, whose eyes are wide and dark and whose complexion looks like she's on the verge of a heart attack? Who indeed?  
  
"... wait."

The woman in the painting fixes Bian with an oily gaze. She looks her up and down--and her cracked, peeling face tilts up into an imperious smirk. "What's your name?"

Bian pauses at the door, with a deep curtsy. She's trying to stop her knees trembling, but her skirts quiver with her motions. "Amara, my lady."  
  
"Amara. Hm..."

"You are welcome to fluff my pillows any time, Amara." She gives the maid a sly wink, then dismisses her with a wave of her spindly hands.

Laundry in hand, the maid departs - but only after leaning against the wall outside and breathing heavily and extravagantly, so the ghost could hear her.

With that done, she retreats out of hearing range, heading down to the actual laundry to drop off her load. And while she's there, she makes sure some of the other girls know Amara and chats for a bit, and uses all her various skills to create a trail of memories such that she was there all along. It's busywork for her mouth, while her mind works in the background.

Oh, she knows she's not as smart as some of the others. She's not naturally brilliant - but she's a quick thinker, and she's already considering what to do with what is happening here.

And then once she's done there, she makes sure she's grabbed by one of the housekeepers and sent to bring drinks to the young lady and her guests.  
  
\---

\---

  
  
Orochi returns as Isi, regretfully, sends servants out to retrieve the resting figure of her betrothed. Once that's done, she faces the assembled.

"Now that that's done and there are no more damned interruptions..." She looks up through black bangs. "What do you want."  
  
She knows she can't just dismiss you. She's smart enough to know she can't run from your group.

"Answers, mostly," Coyote says. "Preferably without people jumping out from windows."

"My loincloth and my heels."

"And those."  
  
"Fuck you," she says to Wren without missing a beat. "Answers to what?"  
  
From a shadowy corner walks a beautiful maid into the scene.

  
Wren shrugs. It's not the first time they've walked around naked in public.

  
Orochi repeats his question to the handsome idiot in the hall, his cadence and tone as even and as half-amused-mostly-indifferent as ever.  
  
Isi's face is a sour mask, green lips puckered like a ripe apple. "My father wanted to negotiate with Tenepeshu a way for us to regain influence and say in how the city is run, in order to stave off more... unpleasant ways of acquiring it. I wasn't inside the chambers because he didn't think I would be useful."

  
"Then why did you attend at all?"

Wordlessly, the maid serves the drinks - offering first, of course, to Isi - with an admirably straight face. She does redden slightly as she looks at Wren, but her eyes barely dip below the waist. Only once or twice.  
  
"Because he bade me do so. It may be a foreign concept to you, stranger, but we obey our fathers here in Champoor."  
  
She says it with not a little spite.

  
Orochi laughs, light and melodic and so profoundly...empty for all that. Not false. Not fake exactly. No thickly smeared layer of syrupy-sweet to cover up something rotted and filthy. It's just as if he read, once, that this is something that people should do and then trained, day and night, until he mastered this simple act. But he can't quite conceal the artificiality.

  
The sort of social seam at the edges.

  
It's just another mask.

  
"Then just two more questions I suppose."

  
"Do you have any idea as to who may be responsible, certain sources indicate that a spirit was involved in sabotaging the statue's foundations. And if not you then there are few enough sorcerers and thaumaturges in this city."  
  
"Sure. I'll tell you who." She says it like she's discussing the weather. "Just make me a promise first."

  
"Mnm."

"And that would be?"  
  
Isi giggles. The goofy, fruit-like look she has, suddenly looks vastly less harmless. Much less like an apple and much more like a poisonous berry.

"Be sure to let me walk out as my family crumbles into ruins."

  
"Oh," Orochi hums almost-happily (but almost, only almost), not even blinking, "Of course."

A dainty, white-carapaced dragonfly enters through the window, buzzing pleasantly before sitting down on Orochi's shoulder.

The maid is there, standing in the back, watching. Her mind working to see how much the girl really knows about her family's plans, and whether she's capable of pulling through. All behind a placid face.

Wren glances between everyone here. The mood got a lot heavier than they'd like.

And they slowly start to back out of the room. They can just steal another loincloth.

Or sneak into the bedroom and steal back their shit. One of the two. Whichever's easier. Hopefully nobody notices them trying to leave.

Coyote flicks his eyes in their direction, but makes no move to stop them. Instead, he keeps his attention trained on Isi.  
  
The noblewoman smiles. "Okay. We did it. All of us. My betrothed and the butler and the maid" -she points at Bian "-picked up the refugees and whores, my father sacrificed them in the pits behind the house, I fed their spirits to our ancestors... and then I let Grandmother Nuo out for a bell. See, we've been getting ready. Ready to fight the Five Fingers--my father never expected the meeting to work." She flicks a lock of black hair out of her eyes. "So, I just tried to ignite that war a little early by telling Grandmother Nuo where my father was. Because she thinks him incompetent."  
  
Bian watches with intent eyes as Isi speaks. Every word of it seems to be true.  
  
The reason she's sharing?

"I hate this house," she says nonchalantly. "I hate this legacy. I hate this city. So, I'm leaving--and I don't want to be followed by anyone as I do."

The dragonfly's hindleg scratches off some imperctible spec of dirt from the opalescent membrane of her wing. Sacrificed, sacrificed, sacrified. No, this won't do. The dragonfly bristles, and takes off, disappearing through the window, and away from the house and the pits behind it.

Wren hasn't left like they wanted. Quite the opposite; they were locked into place as she went further and further into the confession, like a stupid-looking erotic statue.  
  
Isi spreads her hands wide in an easy shrug. "That's really it. You can just pin this on the entire family, if you like. But do know that my father won't go down without a fight, and that he'll be back here tonight."

Her teeth glint. "Can I go now?"

Coyote leans forward, and for a moment Isi's gaze locks with his own. But those eyes, shadowed as they are beneath his kufiyah, seem to shift. No longer are they human eyes, but something canine and hungry. Glowing faintly in the darkness of his headdress, there is a sudden, terrifying sensation of being prey before a predator, with the only recourse being if they decide this morsel is not worth their effort.  
  
Coyote's eyes are the flash in the dark. His voice is the howl in the moonlit night. His claws are the scratching at the windows. He walks under sirocco winds, and he knows what he hunts.

Isi speaks truth. Like the bird flies and the bug leaps, this young woman resents. She resents power. She distrusts it. It's how she feels about Coyote. It's how she feels about her family.

It's how she feels about herself.  
  
The young Dragonblooded seeks to run away. From her power, and from any additional power, as much as anything else.

A grunt, and Coyote sits back. He takes a deep, almost pained, sigh and rubs a hand over his face before turning to look at Orochi. His expression is... mixed, his lips pressed tight, and the only impression that can be seen from his posture is one of weariness.

"She's telling the truth."

  
Orochi says nothing. His smile stays fixed politely in place. His hair doesn't so much as sway, there's not so much as an errant twitch of movement.

  
"Ah," he says.

  
"I see," he says.  
  
"As much fun as it is to be interrogated..." Isi stands--and her eyes glow bright green. The smell of pollen fills the air.

Wren looks between everyone and wonders if anyone else is seeing this shit right now.  
  
"I'll be taking my leave now. Unless you want to make a scene."  
  
Little ripples in the air, Essence shifting.  
  
"I trust you're good for your word?" Isi locks her gaze with Orochi's red slit eyes.

"GladlythankyouforyourtimeyourbetrothedhasanicedickseeyouLATER!" And Wren quickly slips out of the room.

  
Orochi considers for a moment, just a moment. "I-" he says.

  
"Wish you all the best in your new life."

  
His tone is remote. His voice flat, his voice cold. But the worst part is...

  
He's absolutely sincere.  
  
Isi smiles freely. "Thank you. I'd say the same in return. But we both know I'd be lying."

She walks out, head held high. Unburdened by the colossal pressure in the air.

Outside, Aalti moans in his sleep like a frog heralding a storm.

It's not funny anymore.

The maid exhales. She's... she's glad. She's quite glad that Isi seemed to forget about her, or else she might have wanted to get rid of the witness.

It's probably a good idea to make herself very, very scarce. And discard this face for now.

"It's war, then," Coyote says, his shoulders still slumped. "Perhaps not as terrible as it could be, but still war."  
  
Lightning crackles again on the horizon, white, purple and pink. The clouds are moving in fast.

  
  
Isi Nagara walks down to the docks, a free woman. A little bug hitches a ride.

The small dragonfly nests itself on her shoulder, then scrapes its wing again.

"Is this Champoor?" it asks. "Is Cakori Buno Champoor?"  
  
Isi Nagara blinks. Then she narrows her eyes. There's a faint shifting in the air. "Who the fuck?" she growls.

The dragonfly circles around her for a moment.  
  
Eyes glowing green once more, Isi spies the dragonfly. "What do you want," she hisses, redoubling her pace downhill. "I got a ship to catch."

"I want to know" Curio says "what is a life worth."

Her voice stops, and when she speaks again, the buzz grows unpleasant.

"What is a life worth in Champoor?"  
  
Isi sneers. "In Champoor? Hah. Okay, little moonspawn. Here's a question for you. The answer to that is your answer. What runs with no feet, sees with no eyes, hears with no ears and speaks with no mouth?"

"Me."

Curio's mind briefly stops; the fly comes buzzing inside again. What is that thought?  
  
"The answer," the young woman huffs as she jogs into Lighthouse District, "is 'whatever you want'. Because in Champoor you can find anything. Because in Champoor, anything can be anything."

"Last call!" bellows a sailor on a gangplank. "Last call! Port's locking down after this--no boats in or out! Order direct from Jeyen Te--the storm's too dangerous!"

Boats are the only way in or out of Champoor.

"There's your answer. Now leave me be."

Curio briefly considers taking her heart. She could. It would be easy.

But there is no point.

She flies off, leaving Isi to leave.

Leave - leave like she herself suggested they should. But they didn't. And now there is something else grasping at her. But thanks to the Luna's grace, it cannot hold. She flies above the filth, above the soil, above memories. In Curio, anything can be anything, so she can be free. There is no answer. There is no burden. Cakori Buno was just a bad dream, and she will forget him like she forgot...

...

...

...when she comes home, when she assumes her perfected shell again, when she will be the most beautiful thing in all Champoor once more, she will be without a fault; without a fault she, or anyone else, can see. But cracks start very small.  
  
And in such a smooth shell, they are oh so hard to hide.

Orochi thinks about still skies and a horizon of black thunderheads, lightning the color of grapefruit and lovely quartz leaping from cloud to cloud. Stalking across the ocean on jagged centipede legs. He thinks about dead gods and dead things beneath ancient houses. He slowly picks up his hat.  
  
In another life, Orochi knew softness on the inside, as well as the outside. Before there was the snake in white, there was the man in scarlet, on the hell-blasted wasteland that was once known as the Blessed Isle. Back when it was the heart of the dragon that girdled the world and the center of all culture.

The man in scarlet was a moderately talented student. He remembered stories, of prefectures close to the Imperial Mountain - for it was still a mountain, then, and not a broken thing exploded and toppled onto a continent - where yellow butterflies clouded the air like sakura petals. Collecting them - preserving them, by pressing them into books - was a popular pass-time for children.

It was said that they could last forever, if done right. For the pressing wasn't just preservation. With a little forbidden magic, it was cutting the soul off from reincarnation, from the Underworld, from even wandering.

The man in scarlet always wondered if you could do it to people.

"Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait." Wren raises their hands. "Wait a fucking second. The ports are closed? So we're stuck here?"

  
He puts his hat on his head, the brim tugged low, shadowing his features. His mouth curved up, worked, into that same effortless smile.

"It was, I think, an intentional method of preservation. Possibly done while she was alive. So that she could advise her family, even from beyond the threshold of death. She is not, it would seem, a mere ghost."

  
"There are no guarantees as to what she's become now. Or what she's capable of."

  
"Bian. Coyote." He doesn't say Wren's name, he knows they weren't paying attention, "I have some arrangements I must make before nightfall. I will meet you at Jiyan Te's compound."

Bian steps out from behind the silk, changed fully. "What is your intent?" she asks.

"This may be a longshot, but why don't I just head back to the Nagara estate and burn it to the ground?" He settles his hands on his belt. "See if that doesn't just deal with Grandmother Nuo."

  
"To ensure that all that I have labored for does not vanish beneath a tide of Hungry Ghosts. And no," he says quietly, "No we are long past that point."

  
And then the snake all in white is gone.

She massages her temples. "I want to know if I should go in a pretty dress or something that can take a knife to the back!" she calls after him.

"Go with the latter," Coyote says. "Looks to be a bad night."

"Ahaaaaa whaaaaaat the fuuuuuuuck." Wren stares at where Orochi just was. They keep staring and staring and staring. They start hyperventilating.

This wasn't what they were expecting at all.

Ah, damn.

Coyote turns to Wren, bending down so that they're on eye level to each other. He gives them a few moments to register his presence, and then he gently rests both hands on their shoulders.

"Wren, I need you to look at me."

Wren immediately starts to try and push Coyote off of them. It's a feeble, weak attempt. "Get off of me get the fuck OFF of me!" They try to force him off again, before they quickly give up.

"Fucking fuck me I just wanted to do this one easy-ass thing and leave but this is not what I was here for this is not-what the fuck what the fuck I am stuck in this fucking pit of a city fucking-"

"I'm not exactly in a happy place," Bian says, her voice cracking. "I had a creepy painting ghost making moves on me. This city is... it's just awful."

"I don't want to die here again! Anywhere else but not fucking here!"

"Coyote," Bian says. "Please get off Wren. They asked you to get off them."

"Wren!" Coyote barks, letting out some of his namesake. "I'm sorry it's come to this, but you're going to need to focus. You're not going to die. I promise you that."

He stands up, removing his hands from Wren's shoulders. As he does, they shift and grow. Coyote swells beneath the flowing swath of clothing he always wears, even despite the heat. Muscles bunching up and then stretching, fur growing from suddenly leathery skin as his bones shift. His face elongates, becomes a muzzle, and curved horns burst from his skull between the folds of his kufiyah.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating him briefly in blinding white. Towering, easily a full head taller than he was before, stands the true shape of the man known as Coyote Among Bulls. He looks down at Wren with shining silver eyes, and gives them a smile full of sharp teeth.

"Because I'm worse than anything that's going to be coming up out of the ground."

Wren's breathing hitches as Coyote grows to his full height, as he towers over them, as their muzzle emerges and their body stertches over them. The feathers underneath their leggings and gloves twitch for just a second, their eyes widen as they take a step back.

The man towers over them, taller than their already-imposing human form.

They swallow. "I-I..." They feel smaller, even smaller. "U-uhhuhhh..."

"Now," he continues, his voice deeper. "Let's get to Jeyen Te."

"R-right. Yes." They mutter.

Then they blink. And well, a part of them twitches. "I've never fucked with you in this form." They say, despite themself.

"It's not something I use lightly," Coyote says. "But there will be violence tonight, and I'm going to be ready."

Bian sighs. "If you're going to go off together, I'm leaving," she says quite archly. "I have sensitive hearing, and I don't want to learn any more perversions of the meanings of words like 'daddy' today, thank you very much. I haven't had a good day and I fear it will get worse."

Wren coughs. "I wasn't gonna fuck him here!"

"You still haven't found any clothing," she points out.

"I haven't found anything suitable to replace it yet! I can't just throw any old rag over my dick it has to be quality."

She only shakes her head, and steps out into the rain.  
  
\---  
  
They assemble in a compound in the northeast of Lighthouse District, near where the hills slope up to Jade Way. It's a hilltop warehouse, sandstone washed black and covered in old graffiti. There's not a corner without a torch for the coming night. The sun drowns in a sea of boiling clouds.

Inside:

Orochi, Bian, Curo, Coyote, Wren. Standing in a half-circle, given a wide birth.

A swath of loyalist lieutenants, foot soldiers, common people, women, children, the eyelidless Ysryi woman Blink, and Jeyen Te, talking to everyone in smooth, confident tones, the very definition of the classy gangster.

Jangma and his crew, intermixed with some of Orochi's talon-captains.

Gang's all here.

Jeyen Te steps up onto a podium with magic swirling around his ink-banded hands. He floats at the height of a tall man above everyone's heads as he speaks.

"I'm not gonna sugar-coat it: this one's bad." He speaks slowly and deliberately. "We're gonna get hit, and hit hard. But-" he smiles, baring fangs unlike Orochi's or Jangma's; he filed them himself- "we're gonna get those sons of bitches. We'll get revenge. And then we'll rebuild. Bigger and better. Like we always do."

He raises a fist, and pumps it with a whoop. The crowd returns the gesture, screaming for blood.

It's not hard to see why he's so loved.  
  
Every group has their orders. They're all to march up and encircle Jade Way--keep the neighborhood in check, keep the ghosts inside, keep the city intact. Hold the line.  
  
No "or else". There's no need to threaten or coerce.

Another day, another face. This time Bian looks like a maternal woman, with mixed Northern and Realm blood with dark eyes and hair as blue as sky-jade. She's the palest person here - and not just because of her adopted form. She's scared. The others can see it.

Wren was told to be modest when they arrived, and lo, they have a thin cloth that they wrapped around their waist. It's transluscent; under the right light it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. But at a distance, it's enough for them to get around without anyone complaining.

Except for Wren, of course. Who still bemoans the loss of their golden shoes and glimmering loincloth.

They still have a look of terror on their face. There is no way they're going to be a help during this fight. Frankly they're planning on leaving as soon as it gets bad. So probably immediately.

Coyote stands with his arms crossed, still in his true shape. Few among the crowd can match his height, and fewer can endure the menacing aura around him. He is the hunter in the night, a predator who brings down his prey with brutal efficiency. But he is also the charging rush of horns, of skin that can turn aside knives with ease.

Taller now, and filled out as he is, it's finally obvious what rests at the belt he wears as the wind picks up and sends his bisht billowing in the coming storm. Two holsters, long and tapered, with ebony handles peeking out from above the leather.

Those shining silver eyes watch the crowd, and past them to the city. Mist pools around his lips as they draw back, his pointed ears, obvious to everyone, flattening to the sides of his skull as he prepares himself.

  
He styled their armor, their clothing, after a book Ma-Ha-Suichi showed him once and oh isn't that a faintly embarrassing thing to admit? One of the few memories he has of the two of them together alone, not in a class with his fellow Lunars, not at a remove with one of his shahan-ya's senior disciples, them in one of the Nameless Lair's vast libraries. A book open to a painted picture, the Shogunate Metropolitan Police Special Response Corps. Replicated now in Age of Sorrows materials. Segmented armor, a saurian, snoutlike mask, glittering lens-eyes. Jet black and navy blue. A military unit with rank on the sleeves of their long rain-capes in silver thread. In between and around them, in a faint misty haze, the impression of something serpentine now and then. Something elemental, formed of rain and floodwaters and stormclouds.

  
Their leader stands beside Coyote, quiet and contemplative.

Curio stands, idle. She is back to her usual shell, this time adorned with no clothes, only a dazzling series of breaking lines that seem to shift and worm as one looks at her. She is by Orochi and otherwise - alone.  
  
They set off. They all take their places, walking through streets dry for the first time in years. Orochi's talon-captains with Jangma, on Jeyen Te's right flank. The Exalt and all his companions there on the front lines.  
  
The clouds roll in. Lightning runs inverted wildfires in the sky. A stiff wind blows, straight down instead of from side to side.

"Orochi" she says suddenly. "Tell me, how much is a life worth?"

  
"There is no inherent value to a life," he says tone mild, words desolate and bleak as a fire-scorched plain, his black hair and a white coat billow in the wind, fingers to the brim of his hat, "A body is just a mechanism made of meat and bone. All social value is assigned by the judgement of others. The sum total of your perceived virtues and self-evident sins.

To dictate otherwise is both obscene and necessary."

Curio looks at her porcelain hands, and at what is beneath the shell.

"I understand" she says.

She really does.

This is not a good sign.  
  
The sun surrenders to the sea of churning clouds.. Night falls suddenly and all at once. It's quiet in Champoor. And - in spite of the torches everywhere - it's dark. It's too dark. Tenepeshu's Eye, the lighthouse, isn't spinning. For the first night in a long time, the lighthouse illuminates nothing.

Screams sound through the night. Those that wouldn't evacuate the district.

Jeyen Te pulls out a great glass orb, and as death walks forward in its many faces, his hands crackle with energy.

The eye blinks, and it sees the dead.

Who disintegrate under its bright gaze.

"Tenepeshu is with us still!" he roars. "Her light shall keep the dead at bay!"

Jangma turns to Orochi, pale as the grave.  
  
And then the dead are upon them and the time for words is past.

\---


	9. Exhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourth main session. The first half's end. Warning: this one is explicit even by our standards.

The Dreaming Sea is the frontier of wonders. Its shores lapped with waves hued with Wyld energies, shifting in and out with the tide. Its vistas the stuff of boundless imagination. Its cities are the stuff of dreams. And how easily dream curdles to nightmare.

The dead come. They leave gore and filth behind as they break upon the walls of Champoor's people, shoulder by shoulder, hand in hand. But they keep coming. It's like fighting the tide when you're underwater. But eventually there's a moment to breathe. A moment of respite.

Jeyen Te, artifact in hand, calls out. "How we doin'?" he yells, voice hoarse.

Bian doesn't have a clue. Not only about how they're doing, but also what she's doing here. She's not a solider! She's not even a street thug! But that's why she's crouched on a high up building in the shape of an owl, watching the nighttime flow of battle, waiting to see what others can't.

Wren is mysteriously missing. They are nowhere to be found. In fact, there seems to be a mysterious lack of them. A bird can be heard faintly chirping just a few meters above.

At the start of the night, Curio thought itself quite distant from this sort of mess; but then it got involved.

When Jeyen Te calls, Curio says nothing. It is currently knees-deep in dead, a perfect porcelain shell coated in ichor and filth, a coat of paint so grotesque that it can't help but to love it. Only its hands stay clean: silver mist coils around them, and what it touches, it dissolves. When it strikes, when it rips into flesh and bone, there is only a quiet, fizzling sound.

It is such a strange feeling, Curio concludes, as its hands grab another dead thing and rip it into shreds as if paper; it should not be so easy. Pretty things shouldn't be conducting themselves like that.

Coyote lands nearby, only the slightest updraft of dust marking his presence. It's unnatural... How can anything as tall as he is, with as much weight as he must carry, move so lightly? Even with that moonsilver arm launching him from one end of the battlefield to the other, he should have been hitting the ground with enough force to send cracks through stone.

A flamepiece in hand, he fires at one of the lingering crowds of the dead, engulfing them in a purifying inferno. He aims briefly with the weapon in his other hand, and another is group is consumed. The stench of cooking flesh fills the air, and the shadows cast by the blaze seem to cloak Coyote in an embrace that made him seem even larger, even more menacing. Like a monster out of myth more than a man.

"They haven't killed us yet," he replies before spitting into the barrels of his weapons, the saliva steaming ominously in the air before sliding down. "That's a good enough sign for now."

Another faint chirp from above.

Orochi walks, hands in the pockets of his slow-billowing coat and hat tipped down over his face. His stride measured, steady, untroubled. The man himself could be out for an evening stroll, lost in thought for all the apparent care he gives the undead.

All around him the air shimmers. All around him the air wavers and glistens, grey clouds roiling, water weeping from nothing. At times you can see it, see the thing that dwells within his personal storm as it moves, as it strikes, the massive, monstrous thing that follows him like a shadow. That keeps him in a half-embrace. A thing of sapphire armor, every plate an organic slab, a shaped scale. A thing mantled in cerulean power, carrying itself upright like a man dressed in a jadesteel harness. A thing of white frost and raging surf.

Ten thousand silver-headed serpents writhing in the hollows of itself. It's helm a white fanged, foaming maw. An endlessly coiling tide unspooling from a torn-out throat, a torso opened like overlapping petals, as it hunches over its charge. Lashing out with fists (too many fists) the size of wagon carts. With tendrils tipped in razor ice and writhing lashes of snakes made of raging current.  
Word comes in from messengers slicked in blood and water: Thus far only minor losses have been sustained. None of the dead have breached the line. Tired murmurs, cautiously hopeful, ripple through the line. It's going good so far.

But one monsoon god doesn't look too happy. Jangma floats alone in his serpent form in the driving wind and rain, scored with nicks that bleed blue blood. His people are next to Orochi's squadrons, looking over occasionally to where Jeyen Te and and his loyal core of lieutenants are. Looking hungrily.

"We need to take the fight to them if we want to get through the night" Jeyen Te says. "If we take our best fighters we can punch right through and deal with the core itself." The Eye of Tenepeshu flashes in his hands.

"Coyote. Orochi. And... you." He looks at Jangma. "Let's punch right for the manor and see if we can stop this now."

"Seems a decent plan," Coyote says, stomping one booted foot on a smoldering corpse that hasn't quite given up yet. His legs move strangely, as if there are too many joints, but it hits with bone crushing force all the same. "But we're going to need the bulk of the Dead distracted if it's going to work. I can get there without too much trouble, but I'm not sure about the rest of you."

Jangma can't see his face, not properly, half his features either drowned in shadow or starkly lit on one side by flashes of blue light, by Jangma's lightning or Coyote's inferno. But the man doesn't object, seemingly still lost in his own thoughts. But there's a glint of scarlet beneath the brim.

"Distracted?" Curio says, turning its head almost 180 degrees, while its arms are ripping arms off some walking corpse.

"Yeah," Coyote replies. "The moment they realize what we're doing they're going to swarm whatever group is going for the manor. So we need them occupied so we can slip away."

"Ahhhh" Curio nods approvingly, and returns to slaying.  
Jangma looks to one side, then the other, serpentine neck twisting. He lets out a serpentine hiss. "Guess we're waiting on that distraction." He floats casually over to his boys. "Remember," he tells a bandana-wearing lieutenant conversationally. "Let's have some fun while we're out."

All of his boys look up.

Silver haze that clung to Curio's palms seems to flow up its porcelian skins, getting under blood and grime, making it shine with an inner kind of light. The mark of the mercurial Changing Moon opens like an eye on its forehead: and for once, it seems to have something like a cyclopean, inhuman face.

The dead around it turn: they are drawn to it, as all things are.

If they can still desire, they do: if not, they just reach and claw. But the porcelain shell is not fragile, and whatever inhabits it is not powerless. Oh, oh no.

"That'll do it," Coyote mutters as the mass of the Dead shifts, turning away from indiscriminate assault and focusing their attention on Curio. He looks at the others. "Try to keep up."

A black nailed hand raised in a dismissive, lazy wave. The man doesn't meaningfully stretch out his stride or do anything so crude as jog after Coyote. Merely keeping pace with the storm serpent above him, beside him. The press of rotted flesh undoing itself before him. Animated anatomy in its mottled greys and sickly greens and tainted, filthy browns ceasing to exist.

\---

Jade Way's boulevards are spacious rivers of water and blood. It's a straight shot up to the Nagara manor--but tonight there's a crowd. Corpses stomp, moaning and hissing with hate. Some are fat and hungry. Some are thin and quick. Some are armed like soldiers; some crawl like lizards. A scant few are flying - no, gliding, from rooftop to rooftop, deformed like bats.

Either way, you have to get through them.

Mediocre. That's the word, the single, sole thought that bounces around the inside of his skull. Not anger. Not shame. Not hate or sadness or horror: the deep frustrations of a man grappling with abject mediocrity. With his own inability to rise above it, to do better, to do more. Without an outlet for the slow-chewing irritation, the kindling aggravation, the sensation like gritty sand beneath his mask. A wretched night. A wretched plan. A wretched god-

Well. No.

Jangma did as he thought best with what he had at his disposal, he tried and really isn't that the most damning sentence in any language? "Please don't be upset, I tried very hard, I did my best".

Bodies float in the half-translucent trunk of the thing behind him, steadily leeched of blood, tattered streamers of scarlet black unwinding, the aqueous body of the elemental boiling as the dead dissolve, as they're digested, unmade and recycled. Purified by consumption. Glaive-headed tentacles lash out, so fast the frozen heads all but hum, limbs unseaming the Dead things. Serpents vomit forth from the throat, from the opened torso. The sloping maw-head dripping seaform saliva, segments of armor shifting, clicking, half-forming the impression of a blind helm only to give the lie a moment later.

Across the walls and rooftops a blur shoots among the dead, and where it goes fire trails in its wake. Booms not unlike thunder ring throughout the night, but unlike lightning the sound comes just a heartbeat before the erupting flash. The Dead on the street fall as rotted flesh is consumed in fire, and the flying abominations tumble out of the sky as bursts of swiftly crumbling ash.

Those with eyes able to follow Coyote see that his hands are a blur, holstering and drawing weapons as quickly as his moonsilver arm pulls him from rooftop to rooftop. Flamepieces are supposed to be slow, cumbersome things best used in mass battles. But in the Lunar's hands they seem to belch forth fire unending. The only pause taken is when Coyote spits into the barrel, the fluids sizzling and popping in the open air before settling inside their housing.

Horns and claws, fire and death... How easy it could have been to say the man was all talk, bluffing his way through Champoor. Not so easy now, with the hordes falling around him.

Why, then, does he hold himself back? Why, then, does he not exercise his power? Why, even now in those brief moments his bestial face can be seen through the rain and smoke and darkness, does he express no joy in his near peerless skill?

These are questions only Coyote can answer, and he remains silent as he pushes through the unjustly slain.  
They push through the dead. Jangma twitching and snapping through cold bodies like lightning. Jeyen Te disintegrating behemoths of flesh under the gaze of the crystal orb and the fire from his hands. The sounds of fire, screams and moans, wind, rain and thunder, wash the great boulevard. It's hard to hear each other talk. It's hard to hear each other think.

Which is why they don't notice the lightning roll from uphill until it's almost upon them. It misses by scant handspans, leaving vined burns on the dead that amble about.

\---

Through the eerie gale flies a little bird. It has nothing to do and no trouble to make. Who would notice it on a night like this? And who would object if it desired to reclaim its shiny belongings?

So it is that Wren flies over spacious Jade Way, doing their best not to look at the flashing lights, the moans of the damned, the screams of sorcery below, as they flap over and around to the back of the Nagara manor.

The tiny little Wren flaps their wings, gradually reaching the same window that they had been thrown out of just a few hours ago.

Their feet hit the windowsill, tiny little claws jumping up and down as they leap down to the floor, and pop back up a scantily-clad person.

They crack their neck, stretch their hands, and pull the cloth around their waist right off. The twirl it a few times, before promptly tossing it right out the window.

They glance down, slap their ass, rub their hand across their dick, and wander off towards the bed.

They sigh. "He didn't even make me cum before throwing me out."

A quick look outside, and they see hell. And that's mighty unpleasant. They certainly don't want to think about that right now. They have more important things to tend to.

So they shut the curtains. And leave just enough of an opening to fly out of.

Next, they do what they do best; they put their loincloth (ohh it's still clean) on their waist, clasp together the gold and start rifling through the drawers.  
Wren finds oodles of gold and jewels. Jade broaches, piles of gold and silver. Old raiment after raiment crusted with jade. It's a veritable mine.

From outside the room comes the sound of footsteps and moaning.

From inside comes moaning.

Wren turns and sees, still passed out, but stirring, the man from earlier - Luo Aalti, on the floor.

Wren almost jumps in surprise as soon as they realize that Luo is here, that dumbass that didn't even finish them is fucking here!

Except...he's still asleep.

Okay, so that's a plus. They quietly start to pick what they can. A jade broach. They put it around their neck. A piece of jewelry, they throw around their wrist. A...is that a cock ring?

They put that on, too. Might as well.

They keep themself slow. They can just transform if they need to. Just hide under the bed as a tiny little rat, a snake, a bird, whatever. It's fine. It's going to be fine.  
Luo slowly stirs to wakefulness. Wren is quiet, but not quiet enough. He hears something.

"Wh... wha? Whasgoingon?"

And like that, Wren is gone. And in their place, a tiny little rat skitters away from the open drawer and underneath the bed.

Underneath, they wander around, trying to keep their footsteps quiet. The carpet helps, but it takes a lot of work to keep from squeaking as they search for a hole or something to get out through.

There is nothing of the sort. This house is too well-kept for that. Too expensive for that. They wouldn't have some hole for a rat to escape out of.

They turn back outside of the bed. They're waiting for the man to realize something's off. They hope he's as bad at searching as he is at fucking.  
After a long moment of quiet (and it is quiet, in here it's too quiet, and it is very noisy outside), the man speaks.

"I know you're there," he says thickly. "I'm not stupid."

\---

The thunder booms, around them and then above them. It narrowly misses Jeyen Te, who jumps back swearing, and Coyote, who lurches gracefully to the side. Up above at the top of the hill is the Firefly, his power flaring around him--his eyes burned shut, a great white dragonfly lit with lightning spinning around him as rotten air flows.

He yells something into the wind - but it's inaudible.

Then the monsoon god turns on his peer, and sinks his fangs deep into his shoulder.

Coyote reacts instantly, because he doesn't like traitors and he doesn't like traps. He blasts the monsoon god with his firewants, just enough to get him to float backwards--at which point Jangma takes a blast of blazing light through the tail, black-blue blood and guts slopping out like fat clouds into the cobbles. He screams like a hurricane.

And in the middle of the maelstrom, in the middle of the chaos and the sweetly-rotting winds and the blood (Jangma's lapping against his shoes, the exact same shade as his mother's and oh isn't that a thought) there's just...Orochi. The snake who is a man. The serpent all in white. Pushing up the brim up his hat with one black nail as for a moment (just a moment) the Hell on every side seems to still. The whole world slowing, stopping, as if taking a deep breath to start the screaming anew.

"Coyote," Orochi says, his voice mild, polite and pleasant and all the more discordant with the night for it. And Coyote can see that his eyes aren't red anymore. That his irises shimmer and ripple through every color of the rainbow, the once bloody pools rippling and crackling along the pure white sclera like a bonfire. Shifting through a hundred lovely shades.

The kind of thing you could fall into.

The kind of thing you could drown in.

"That's enough."

Coyote staggers, an oppressive cloud hanging over his thoughts. He needs to be doing something... It's important, but he can't quite remember what it is. He feels as if he is dreaming, locked in deep sleep. It is only by instinct that he maintains his grip on his flamepieces, held tightly within clawed hands.  
The dead don't like the light. They scrabble for Jeyen Te, and between the lashing winds and driving rain, the slick cobbles and crush of bodies, something does it. Something trips him. He falls onto the cobbles, heads striking it with a sick crack. He's out cold.  
The dead do what the dead will, and enjoy their feast.  
Tenepeshu's Eye bounces and rolls downhill.

And Jangma's next isn't he? He's a god. He's the son of Tenepeshu. He's powerful, a brawler of a divinity, the kind of guy who would cheerfully cut you open from groin to gullet in a tavern fight and not lose a bit of sleep over it. And now he's down on the paved tiles of Champoor's once-richest, once-wealthiest, always-oldest neighborhood, feeling more pain in a single moment than he's felt in possibly his entire life up to this point. Feeling the awful, sucking pressure as his insides slip through torn flesh and his blood rushes through gouged open channels. Feeling the absurd horror of his viscera on the outside, watching as the undead notice him, smell him as much as see him. Smell the weakness. A colony of almost-blind ants, picking their way over to a bloody, crippled snake.

And then a juggernaut maw the size of a grown man crashes down in the center of the pack, a hundred serpents writhing out with a teakettle hiss. An ophidian chorus. A thousand fangs and the sheer oceanic mass of the elemental crushing and chewing and devouring Firefly's army.

It's master's multi-hued eyes abruptly cutting to the side, tracking the glowing, golden-white orb of light, mouth open as it just...rolls away.  
The Firefly's face twisting aghast as the artifact rolls away. He bounds forward in a leap as light as air, flying over Orochi's head, his aura alighting.

The night is day, and all its horrors are seen clearly.  
And rounding the bend to this queer scene is a shell painted hideous with a dying woman in her arms. A great glassine orb, radiating light, rolls end over end toward her.  
It's a thing of power. It's storms and sunlight.  
It's clean.  
From above a Prince of the Earth bears down, diving for the orb.

Curio stands still; if it notices the orb, it pays no attention to it. But there is something - some person it should recognize, but it doesn't - that stands between it and Orochi.

"Move" it commands in voice like glass being ground into sand.

"Curio..." he says softly and there's such quiet, slow-dawning horror in that voice. And is it for her? On her behalf? Orochi almost never really raises his voice, but there's all the tension, the tautness of a cry in that one word.  
Jangma blurs and assumes his human form. He's missing his legs from the knee down and collapses onto the slick cobbles, face wracked in agony. He lets out a dull scream. cloudy eyes fixing on the Firefly in hate. "You fuck!" he shrieks, blue blood oozing out of his stumps. "I was going to give you everything!"  
Clouds compress from his hands into a spear and launch forward at the Exalted's back. They miss - the tip whizzing just inches from Curio's face.  
"Give me my Eye," the Firefly hisses to Curio. "Then I will move."

For Curio, it is a simple, brutal calculation. This creature stands between it and Orochi, and life for a woman she has to save for some reason it will not allow itself to think. It will not move on its own. So it will be moved.

If there were any insects left in the compound, they are now gone; they flee. They know what is coming.

When Curio strikes, it is a simple motion. Not particularly quick; silver hazes around its hand, fingers like blades as it punches them straight through Firefly, to open the way to Orochi. What won't move on it's own, will be moved by force.

And he is.

There is a flash of silver light around Curio's arm, and it strikes Firefly with focused strength enough to pierce through the flesh, and through bone, and to the other side. A grievious wound. Just as forcefully, it swings the arm, Firefly still impaled, in the direction of the nearest wall; he slams into it in a spray of his own blood. But what kills him comes next. As Curio moves towards Orochi, not even looking back, Firefly tries to stumble to his feet. He manages. And then, he looks down, and notices his own flesh running in a foul-smelling slurry as something eats him from inside. He has a moment to consider the pain before the venom liquifies his heart.

And the dead converge to the still-warm meat of their hated once-master. And they eat, leaving the Lunars be, for now.

The orb keeps rolling.

Jangma lets his head flop against the cobbles, and starts laughing. The anima banner of the dead Exalted dims to nothing.

A surge of fog, a wall of mist and sea-air and stormclouds that rushes, crackling and wet and all but solid down the street. Coalescing into that huge, hulking shape, into Orochi's elemental guard. Talons and squirming limbs gently arresting the precious artifacts path. A hundred or more feet away the Lunar's hand lowers, the catch in his chest easing, that sharp-edged feeling in his throat smoothing as his summoned soldier hunches over the precious thing, as protective as a nesting hen.

He exhales, long and slow.

Curio continues its march towards Orochi, wounded woman in hand. It is drenched in blood, and as the light of its anima warms its shell, the gore and ichor sizzle and steam.

It kneels before Orochi, placing the woman down, and speaks, in a voice that is too human for what it appears to be.

"She can't die."

There is a flash of silver brilliance, pushing back the night. The shadows lengthen as it approaches Orochi, footsteps coming ever closer. A looming presence hangs behind the man, like a blade about to fall.

"Help the woman," growls a tight, rough voice far too close to Orochi's ear for his comfort. "And then you and I are going to have a talk."

"She mustn't die" Curio repeats, as if a broken record. "Why mustn't she die?"

It touches its head, as if it was about to split.

Blink looks up at Orochi, she can't do anything else and oh isn't this such delicious irony. She begs the Anathema, the silver-devil to save her for the sake of revenge. And who does Curio bring her to but one of the architects of her current condition? She saw his soldiers in the streets: armored and faceless, alien and inhuman. A mutant legion, altered and modified into a half a dozen different clades, intention made flesh and deliberate design. From the liquid-flexible skirmishers who seemed almost boneless, masks articulated to let their venomous fangs hang free, their forked tongues flickering, to the hulking huge ogres that towered over even the Five Finger's beastblooded, snake-headed almost giants with arms thick as stone columns and a mane of animate serpents spilling down their backs. She saw them cutting down her troops. Her fellow-sworn. Her kin. And now he's just...looking at her.

Expression neutral.

Slitted scarlet eyes empty.

Mantled in all the shades of a moonlit sea. Of black depths stained silver, where the monsters swim just beneath the surface. A circle of argent light on his brow, the interior a void.

He could kill her. He could kill her simply by failing to save her. He could kill her in the kind of way that's almost undetectable, that she wouldn't realize until twelve hours later when the blood pooling in her chest finally squeezed her heart to stillness. He could do it and get away with it.

But.

Curio asked.

And so he saves her.

Salvation is the absence of pain.

It's the work of mere minutes and when he's done, drifted on, back to her, bloody tools cleaned she's as whole as she was this morning. Or- if not there quite yet, then she will be by the coming dawn. He stoops over Jangma.

He's kind enough not to say "I told you so" as he works, his movements deft and sure, staunching the bleeding and tending to the god's injured flesh.

"They'll live?"

He says nothing for long, long moments. A hand on Jangma's bare shoulder, careless of the blood, the cold sweat, watching intently as his expression goes slack. As the agony ebbs, fades and doesn't return. Something glassy and exhausted in the other man's eyes.

He straightens up.

"They'll live."

"Thank you" Curio says, the last of blood and gore sloughing off its shell, leaving it pristine again. "They are killing each another. They were supposed to be as one. But they are not."

"Why?"

"It's-"

"Good."

Orochi is nearly wrenched off his feet as Coyote turns him around, and does fall when his backhanded strike send him toppling. Ears ringing, darkness swirling at the edges of his vision as blood pools in his mouth, Orochi dimly realizes Coyote struck him with his moonsilver hand.

All that washes away when he sees the vision towering above him, glowing with radiance with a circle of unblemished silver resting upon his brow. Hard eyes stare down at him, full of judgement and barely restrained rage. Lips curl back to reveal fangs, and the shadows of his face create stark lines beneath the illumination of his power.

"You stupid fucking child," he growls. "Are you pleased with yourself? Are you happy with what you've done?"

Orochi's hat falls to the street, a pristine white puddle among the slick dark stone. The man himself hits the ground, sprawled out on his side, fall half-arrested by an outstretched arm, genuinely, gratifyingly surprised for once in the whole time Coyote's known him. Dark hair hanging in a curtain over his face.

Slowly, slowly he picks himself up. Slowly (slowly) he straightens. A blue-purple bruise already visible on the side of his face. A trickle of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth where his lip caught on a too-sharp tooth.

A forked tongue dabs at the red. His face is expressionless. His eyes promise murder. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking, a longing for a kind of human reaction. Maybe there's just nothing at all.

"Don't touch him" Curio hisses.

Coyote glances at her. "You want to know why they're killing each other? It's because your friend and his lover staged a coup. They're the reason for this gods damned mess."

Curio's head just pecks.

"Why?"

Inside, it hurts; it is not even that it is mad at Orochi - why would it? Orochi had his answer. But everything here is like some distant screaming, like some voices that should be familiar, but aren't. Curio destroyed a man so utterly he is now a foul-smelling puddle; somehow it now knows it always could do that. Why? Why is anything happening? What is Champoor?"

Orochi stoops and picks up his hat.

He delicately brushes some dirt from the brim.

It takes all of Curio's energy not to just turn into a dragonfly and fly away. But it can't, and if it could understand why, it would howl loud enough to crack stone and bring the sky down.

"Because they were never truly one, Curio," he says, his tone mild, his voice even, everything about it so horribly at odds with the situation it's almost farcical, a manicured hand indicates the half-unconscious Blink, the panting Jangma with his chest slowing as his breathing eases, the puddle that was once the Firefly, "They shared a city, they shared a ruler, but they were never truly of one mind, one body, one heart."

"Each was starving. Each was hungry. This frenzy was the inevitable result."

Slitted snake-eyes flicker to Coyote.

Curio nods, as if understanding, even if it cannot understand. And so it turns to the woman - to the woman it had to save, for reasons it couldn't understand.

"I did it" it says to her.

Blink's unconscious form breathes. Curio thinks that breathing is a fine answer.

Curio nods. The thought in its head gets even more incessant.

"More fool me for hoping for something different," Coyote growls. "For hoping that perhaps, just this once, power and the desire for it wouldn't end up hurting people. That in the face of an overwhelming threat differences could be put aside..." He shakes his head and spits, the saliva eating through the cobblestones. When he looks back up his smile does not reach his eyes. "I already know we're monsters, Orochi. The strong always become so, in the end. I just want something better than that."

Curio still stares at the woman when it speaks.

"Tell me" she/it asks "how does it feel to hold a life in your hand? Life as fine as a petty insect that it would take you nothing to crush... or let go?"  
The woman's chest rises. It falls. It gurgles and wheezes. It sounds pained.  
Suffering.

Curio raises her/its head. Even though there are no eyes on it, both Orochi and Coyote knows that she/it stares at them, as expecting a response.

"It feels like a clawed hand around the heart, slowly squeezing the life out of you," Coyote replies. "It feels undeserved."

"We are entitled to nothing but what we already are Coyote," Orochi replies softly and it's almost, almost, sympathetic, "This world...It would take nothing to crush it or let it go and so we feel nothing, whether we crush it or let it go. For to do either is simply some monster's indulgence."

"There is no great judge, taking the measure of our souls. We merely are what we are:"

"Beyond redemption and above reproach."

Coyote laughs.

It is a strange sound, like the bark of a dog mixed with the sonorous bellow of a bull.

"Orochi" Curio speaks again. "Answer me. I must know."

"I must understand."

"Then understand," he says as he sets his hat back in place, gently brushing back a long strand of dark hair, "There is no secret truth to this world. There is no great understanding waiting to be found, there is no enlightenment at the mountain's peak."

"Ah."

"There is only us, and all that we've become."

Curio raises its/her hand to its/her face. The hand that destroyed Firefly.

"There's just the powerful and the weak," Coyote says as his terrible mirth dies away, leaving him if anything even more forlorn and angry than before. "With all the suffering left behind in the former's wake."

"Powerful and weak" Curio nods. "Those words are familiar."

"Two sides of the same coin." Coyote looks down the street, toward the manor in the distance. "But enough of this. We have more to do before this night is finished, assuming Orochi can keep from slipping the knife between my shoulders again."

"You do."

"I am not a part of this. I shouldn't be here. This city is a chain, this city is a burden, you are all a burden. She" it points at the woman "is a burden. I should abandon it all. I can. I am unburduned. I am free."

"We're never free," Coyote says in a soft voice, shockingly gentle coming from a mouth lined with fangs. "You'll learn that with time."

"You are all so wise" Curio's voice again shifts. There's a suggestion of something chitinous in it, of a nest of wasps. "You know what is what, you know what isn't what. You know the weak from the strong and you know life from death."

"You have a word for each deed, and a counsel for every pain."

"And yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet, yet."

"Yet nothing makes sense."

"Welcome to life, Curio. It doesn't get any easier."

Welcome to life.  
Ysyr.  
It doesn't get any easier.

Was it...

...was it ever?

Curio isn't particularly fast; but it acts on the sort of impulse few expect. It's arm swings up, fingers trying to clamp down around Coyote's throat.

Coyote's hand snaps up, his arm trembling with the effort of keeping Curio's fingers from closing the last bit of distance to latch around his neck. Muscles backed with Essence and bestial power bulge beneath his clothes, once flowing and bulky but now much tighter around his form. His eyes narrow from the strain, but he keeps them locked on Curio even as she slowly pushes him back.

"Is this how it's going to end, then?" he asks. "You, more powerful than I, leaving me dead because you don't like the words I speak?"

Curio backs off.

"You-" it speaks.

"I-" it says.

"No."

"Do you- do you think I do not know life?" she/it asks. "That- that-"

The memories start again, and it takes so much effort to keep them back.

"Kill me, help me, or leave," Coyote says, turning toward the manor. "But make a decision quickly. I don't have all night."

\---

Shit.

Wren freezes in place. Their little feet lock down, their tail goes ramrod straight.

Shit shit shit fuck fucking fuck  
Luo laughs, a little uneasily. "It's fine. Not like I can hurt you--you're Anathema. I'm just mortal. And," he makes a pained noise, rubbing at his back, "I can't really move."  
"Here I thought I'd be a part of the whole event, but it seems everyone just forgot about me. Even my own betrothed." He doesn't bother keeping the bitterness out of his voice.

Wren relaxes just a little. They crawl out from under the bed, and they slooooowly rise out from underneath the bed.

They rise up to their normal height, their eyes locked onto Luo.

"The last I saw of you, you were going to throw me out the window like some common whore. I suppose I should be thankful that you're not immediately attempting to strangle me. Not in a sexy way but a way that seems like an attempt at violence."

They pause. The wording didn't really make sense. It's probably not perfect.

They don't care.

"And I wouldn't worry that much about it, darling. You're not missing much. A few thousand corpses and a few demigods throwing toys around with the powers they've earned."  
"Yeah, well. I was supposed to be in on this. At least, I thought I was." Luo spits--then instantly winces, the gesture clearly causing him pain. "Grandmother Nuo said she was going to put us back on top after tonight, but... all this? All these zombies?" His eyes water, tears filling them. "I don't want to run a shadowland. I want power, I don't want to depopulate the city. That was never the plan! Or--it was never the plan I got told."

"The plan you got told? What plan were you told? Did it involve a harem and power and I mean I don't think it works like that. Were you expecting like a policeforce of the Undead? Oh! I bet you expected a few free fucks, too."

They pause.

"I mean, I guess I am cheap, but I prefer to bill later.  
"I don't know!" Luo snaps. "I just wanted... everything. I just wanted to be the one who matters. To be the one important. To be like--"

His face screws up. "Like the Exalted. Like you."  
"But I guess none of us are important tonight, huh"

"Hahaha, excuse me?"

Wren smiles. The light from outside, despite them closing the curtains, is enough to frame them in a sickly green glow. "You mean to tell me that none of us are important tonight? You mean, we are Anathema. Just like you said. I am an Exalted. I am so powerful, so very powerful compared to a little insignificant, bed-ridden flea like you."

They climb over the bed. Their hands claw over the covers.

"You are not like me. You are not going to get pity out of me. If that was your intention, then perhaps you desperately need to reevaluate your priorities."  
"And what power do you have right here and right now? You were hiding." Luo slowly takes to his feet.  
"What are you to Grandmother Nuo?"  
"A bird? She eats them for breakfast. I would know: I fed them to her."  
His face is washed a sickly hue in that light.

Wren recoils, before they seethe. They seethe and they hate.

"I am more important than you'll ever be in your fucking life. So worthless are you, that you weren't told your family's true plan. So worthless are you, that when given the gift of my body, you could not even make me cum. You even did so early. You worthless slime. You scum-sucker. You piece of human trash."

They stand upright. In the light, their legs grow slightly longer. Their hands grow thinner. Their face turns gaunt for a split second.

"I can snuff the light out from you. I hid for the sake of stealing your gold. Your jewelry. I do not even need it. I have so much. I do it because I thought you were amusing. There is a game to stealing from those like you. Like a price to pay. I am no free ride. And the likes of you, a pitiful mortal like you, still think to mock me? To try and belittle me? To throw me aside like gutter trash? To throw me out the window like garbage? And you still talk to me as though I am some rat filth? When you know what I am? When you know what I can do?"  
"Yeah," Luo says. "I do. Because I made the mistake of wanting to be like you, or like Grandmother Nuo, and now I see I was wrong."  
He hobbles toward the door. "I'm going to try and save this city, at least a little bit. Or let those who have the power to do so in. You're welcome to join me. Or not. I don't care."  
"Do what you will, but you can't have my soul, little bird."

Wren watches him leave, hands by their sides as the man opens the door. Their fingers twitch and they're so viscerally fucking angry that they can't even rant. They can't speak. They stew and stew and boil.

The man leaves the room. And all that Wren, this little Wren can see is an alleyway. They see an alleyway lined with filth. They see a man walking off. They see people ignoring them. They see their ribs through their chest. They feel their teeth clenched tight

They follow Luo out of the room. Their face is twisted with rage that they hadn't felt in years.

To ignore them to save this godforsaken fucking pit.  
The halls are rank with the stench of death. Shadows stretch long and taunt, cast farther than they should. There is no light. Dead proceed from the lower level - they're coming from the back of the house, in the yard ringed and shielded from vision by trees - out the front doors, which are lined with scratches of chalk and blood. In the center of the room are the servants.

Dead, and hung upside down.  
Luo limps as quietly as he can - which is not very - to the doors, the dead milling about just next to him.

  
\---

  
As the two Exalted talk, Orochi inspects the luminescent orb. It's the core of the lighthouse lantern. It's not literally Tenepeshu's Eye - though it may have been, once upon a time. Its gaze will pierce any storm, and any filthy, impure thing caught under it will be disintegrated. Tenepeshu used it to regulate the weather and her own sorceries. It's an artifact of immense power.

It also, Orochi realizes, is why the weather is so crazy. Tenepeshu died, and there was nobody to direct the Eye's full power--so now the Wyld storms of the Dreaming Sea, long held at bay, are coming in with a vengeance to reshape Champoor tonight.  
They can see now through the curtains of rain, the manor's open doors are warded. Dead spill through, approaching hungrily - and inside something stirs.  
They're going to have to disable the wards to get inside.

"What do you think I am?" Curio asks Coyote. There is something in her - anger? Yes, that. As burning as the venom she wields. But what for? Why does she- does it? - why does it want Coyote crushed for hurting something. Nothing. Nothing makes sense, and it knows that it could be otherwise. But the price- no.

"A person trying to find their way, just like anyone else." He draws his flamepieces and walks toward the manor in an even stride, unmindful of the dead before him. "No more and no less."

Curio turns to Orochi.

"Is it true?"

"It is if you want it to be," he replies, brow faintly furrowed as he takes in the manor, the estate, gauging the defenses, "I cannot decide that for you."

Curio's head drops, then it looks at Blink.

"When will she wake?"

"Soon. But she'll be weak for a few days. Would you like to take her with you or shall I send for some soldiers?"

"I need to know something from her."

"She said something to me and- no."

Curio stutters. Again, the sound grinding glass.

"She said something to me."

Someone clears her voice, sitting up on a wall. "Bad news," Bian says. "Men wearing the colours of the Five Fingers have just overturned the Prasadi statues in First Rise Square. I came back because things are... well, they're spreading. I don't know whether the Fingers are doing it deliberately or they've lost control of their men, but I've locked down my place. Things are getting worse.

She leaps down, and there's scorn in her eyes as she looks between them. "Are you quite done? Is anyone else going to come to blows, or are you all - we brothers and sisters in the moon who watches us even now," her finger goes to the crack in the clouds, "going to grow up and act like the champions of the Moon that you claim to be?"

"Let's" Curio says. It doesn't know what those Champions of the Moon are meant to be, but it is a way to escape this conersation, and the burdens it throws upon her.  
Jangma stirs. He grabs at Orochi's fine pants with one shaking hand.

"Ouch," Coyote says, a genuine smile on his lips. "You truly are one of Luna's chosen, tearing out my heart like that."

The snake slowly blinks, more bemused than affronted, more perplexed than outraged. And then he...smiles, just for himself, just for his own sake. Eyes dropping to Jangma as he sinks down beside him, touching the man's bare chest with a gentle hand, nails drifting up to the line of his jaw.

Coyote gets a dirty glare for that. On Bian's face, it's perhaps not as sharp as it should be. It's a little too cute.

"(You need to rest.)"  
Jangma presses into the hand. "Fuck you," he says fondly, his voice a breathy wheeze that smells like ozone. "Listen. If you don't make it to the finish line on this one--if I can't kiss your dumb face, because you mess up and we both die."  
"I'm going to kick your ass five ways to Calibration."  
"Got it?"  
He chuckles, and coughs watery blue blood.  
The bravado really is a front this time. But he knows Orochi needs it. That he's scared too, somewhere, deep down.  
"Only way I go down is from you."

It's...odd seeing that look on Orochi's face, seeing something almost like tenderness, almost like affection. Like someone who's read about such things once upon a time, struggling to recall, to act it out. The intention sincere even if the execution is uncharacteristically clumsy. "(I-)," he begins, he stops.

"(Only me)," he echoes after a moment.

Only him.

He stays with Jangma until the elemental coils back into the emptying boulevard, until he can hear the distant sound of booted footfalls, half-hissed orders, distorted from beneath a metal mask and helm.

And then he, unwillingly, uncertainly stands and follows the others. The Eye in his hand.

Bian is there, soft and sweet-smelling in the rain. She rests her hand on his elbow. "He'll be fine this night," she says gently. "And later on, you'll be there for him, won't you?"

"(Mnm)," he says, an ambiguous noise, partially to himself, to her, to nobody. He opens his mouth as he slowly slips his mask back in place, securing, to say something. To smooth the moment over like he has so many others.  
The four Lunars approach along the side of the doors, and then, when all the undead are gone, look in. They see faces. Some are familiar - a butler, a maid. Bian recognizes many of these girls; she spoke with them just today.

They all hang, draining red onto the floor of the manor. Drip, drip, drip. Building stalagmites of blood in a pond of viscera.

She blanches. "Fuck," she whispers. It doesn't sound natural coming from that face.

Curio watches the corpses dispassionately, at least at first.

Beneath the shell, she forces her eyes closed.  
A voice hisses from inside - the odious man from earlier. Isi's betrothed, Luo Aalti. "Is that you? I'm working on the wards!"

Curio, for a moment, waits.

Something is about to hammer her brain out of her skull. Something, something, something, something, something, something...

Coyote sighs when he sees the bodies, weariness overtaking outrage. This night has already been so full of blood and pain, and all he wishes is to see it finished. These people, consumed by the madness that has overtaken Champoor, will be avenged.

It's a cold comfort, but it's all he has to offer.

"You letting us in?" Coyote asks. "Seems a bit peculiar."

Orochi doesn't flinch, he doesn't recoil or sway. He seems more at ease with this than in that moment in the street, more comfortable here that in that heartbeat of...what was it? Compassion? Empathy? Ah, there's such a sensation in his chest, something sharp-toothed and coiling. Wondering. Chewing the moment over and over again.

This must be how it feels to be Curio, some sliver of it anyway.

Back pressed against the wall, a completely different voice comes from Bian's lips. "Good man, Luo, good man." Swaggering, confident - the kind of woman who always tries to outdrink others. She thinks about what she's heard of him. Weak and vain and self-centred. But with too many qualms for this. "So you found that spine in you. Bit late, but better late than never."  
"Yeah, I'm working on it."

"Do you know how the wards work? What do they block? Doorways and windows?"  
"It's done by the etchings. Each set of sigils binds a particular area - a bubble around the door or window. Rub off the sigils..."

Bian frowns. "Would it be useful if you had some acid?"  
Luo makes a confused noise. "Acid? I mean, I guess, but where are you gonna get some of that? Lady, I'm just trying to hurry--the dead have stopped for now, which means something bigger is coming out. I just gotta finish scrubbing this and..."

Bian reaches up her sleeve, and produces something. "Would this help?"  
Luo pokes his head into view, finally. He looks pale and haggard. "Yes! That would be--"

"You fucking murderer!"

And then from behind, there's a roar. It's a horrible high-pitched squeal of anger and horror, as a candlestick comes in at high-speed.

It hits Luo in the back of the head with a thud, hard enough to knock him off his feet and down to the floor.

"You piece of filth! You waste of fucking flesh!"

His jaw hits the ground, his teeth clench against each other and his tongue had the misfortune of being mid-speech. The tip of it falls out of his mouth and hits the ground.

Except the figure behind him doesn't stop. The candlestick hits him again.

"Fuck you!"

The second hit smashes him hard enough to knock his head aside.

"Fuck your family!"

The third is enough to crack open his skull. The fourth causes blood to spray and his eyes can't even stay shut anymore.

And the person behind him keeps hitting him and hitting him and hitting him and they can't stop and they can't stop and they can't fucking stop.

"FUCK!"

Thwack.

"YOU!"

Thwack.

"FUCK!"

Thwack.

"YOU!"

Squelch.

Each hit gets sloppier. There's not even a head by the end of it there's just a pink sopping mess on the ground as the candlestick hits the ground and thuds against the wood.

And then Wren finally falls to their knees. They're completely out of breath. They're barely holding onto the candlestick anymore; their hands are about ready to slip off of it. It's slick with gore and pieces of bone.

Curio claps.

Coyote pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. "Wren, he was trying to help us."

Bian is left staring, vial of acid in hand. "Okay," she says. "Yes. Uh. That... that."

Orochi is standing beside Bian, genuinely taken aback for the second time tonight. Head slowly, slowly tilting as he sort of just...stares.

The vial disappears back up her sleeve.

"...Why?" It's only half a question.

Half a general statement on the situation.

  
Wren's still panting. "I-I, wait what? He was what? The what the what?" They're still panting hard. Then it starts to dawn on them what they just did. And who they just did it in front of

They fall backwards and scramble a meter backwards. Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck." Their hands are still shaking.

And Orochi, dignified and pale and (almost) immaculate, the perfection marred by a few traces of muddy water from the street where he fell just sort of...looks at them.

The utter contempt is all but palpable.  
The splashes of blood made their way onto the doorframe. Washing chalk off with bits of brain and bile.  
The wards flicker imperceptibly--then drop.  
It seems Wren did it after all.

Orochi steps over the threshold, every motion slow, every movement languid.

"Well, that's something, at least," Bian says, sounding forced. She lets Orochi go first, though.

He stops level with the fallen Lunar and just...looks down at them. Looks at them, takes notice of them, for the first time since they returned to Champoor. Since the two even met, really, on those midnight docks. The serpent and the bird.

Curio follows him very carefully.

She/it doesn't look at Wren, however, but rather at all the corpses around.

A little bird. Sweat-soaked and hyperventilating and covered in a man's blood. In that moment he takes their measure and in that moment he just

Dismisses them.

Utterly.

And walks on.

Coyote has to duck his head slightly to keep his horns from catching on the frame, making his way inside. The carnage is even worse up close, the smell of blood and bile clawing at his nose. But he doesn't react to the scene, instead holstering one of his flamepieces and holding out a hand to Wren.

"Come on," he says. "We're ending this."

And she/it watches the blood drip, and faces tensed in a grimace of horror and pain, she, finally, remembers.

She remembers Ysyr, she remembers the little, scared girl, she remembers the good doctor and she remembers expecting pain, expecting death, and knowing that there is nothing you can do against it. She remembers what her name meant.

"I was named Mayfly" she speaks, towards herself, towards Orochi, towards anyone who would listen. "Because I was not meant to live long."

He pauses for a moment, he says nothing and just waits for her there in that hall, soaked in blood, stained with sin and filth.

"Named by who?" Bian asks, voice soft, eyes watchful, rain rolling off the hood of her coat.

"A good doctor, in Ysyr" Curio speaks, tone flat.

"He had me bred for a purpose I was never supposed to understand, just as I was never supposed to learn his name. Coyote is right."

"Weak do as they must, strong do as they want."

She raises her hand - for the third time - to watch it. Such a perfect, porcelain thing. Someone else's work.

"I wish to know why he made me so. He must have had a reason. There must be a reason for all that."  
Wren doesn't take the hand. They just sit there. Shaking like a leaf as they're left behind to their truth.

The group proceeds down the hallway. It warps, and what should be taking them outside takes them further down, into a place not inside or outside. Here, the grasses are acrylic red and the cobbles are dark purple. The wind that blows is hot and moist like breath, and the shadows writhe like hungry worms. There's a colorless hole in the sky where the moon should be. It's Champoor--or a version of it.

Bian recognizes this landscape. It's what the painting depicted.

"Hello, children," says its subject.

She is ten feet tall. She is limbs like tinder and a smile like sparks. She is flesh rolled around kindling and smoke trapped in twigs.

She is the center of the composition, the subject of the painting.

She is Grandmother Nuo.

She is walking toward you.

"Wish I could say it's a pleasure to meet you, Ma'am, but I'm afraid we both know that would be a lie." He levels his flamepieces on her. "You've lingered too long, old woman, and have much to answer for. Time to move on."  
The fire washes out onto Grandmother Nuo. It burns her. She lights up. And then she is back the way she was - but daubed in oil licks of red and orange.  
She smiles magnanimously. "Try again. This is my painting. I make the rules."

Coyote scowls. "Seems to me you've had enough of that already."  
"Oh, no. See, I thought my problem was that I'm here-" She gestures with one thin arm. "-instead of there-" She gestures with the other. "That I'm in the painting. But that's not a problem if everything is in here with me, now is it?"

"You have to know you can't keep us here," Coyote replies, sidestepping to gain a little distance while keeping Nuo in his line of vision. "Luna's chosen tend to make mockery of confinement."  
In his hands, the Eye of Tenepeshu is bright. It shapes things - it imposes the will of its user. And right now Orochi has plenty of will.

"Please," Bian blurts out. Trying to keep the painting-crone's attention. And though she didn't come with the face of the maid, she still has her voice. "Grandmother, please, what are you doing?"  
Grandmother Nuo swings her head about. "Amara? Amara, my pretty, is that you? Where are you? Join my composition..."  
And by the time she notices the bright light in Orochi's hands, it's too late.

"Ah, I see," he says and his voice is pleasant, polite. The aged matriarch and the gentleman caller, here perhaps to discuss a match with her daughter (or son, depending). Some business of books and customs and imports. As if he wasn't himself, the monster born from the ash and pyroclastic spasms of an empire. As if she wasn't the monster she's become long, long ago. As if this all were something better, a painted dream instead of a shadow-tainted nightmare, an infection.

"This canvas is your flesh, isn't it?"

And then the storm and the sunlight erupt from his hands, triumphant and howling.  
Canvass smolders. Then it burns.

All around them the world screams and withers. Shifting, violent pyroclasms of color and night. Howls as the world erupts into tinder.  
For a minute they don't know where they are, because they aren't anywhere. It's just the heat. Just the heat, and the screams, and the awful, awful smell.  
And then it is past and they stand on the precipice of a pit, looking down at corpses. A charred corpse twitches down below.  
"At least... this much... is mine." Her words are the pop of embers--then they gutter; then, they die.

Orochi raises the Eye once more, one last time, light swirling in its depths. Building, reaching a boiling point. A piercing scream to split the night and set the foundations shuttering. The winds are hungry, the hurricane unleashed is a vicious thing. But there's no real glee in his face. No real sense of victory. Nothing.

Salvation is the absence of pain.

A final, raging storm splits the night and scourges the pit of all within.

Bian watches her die. Or perhaps come to an end. This dead woman who loved her, or at least lusted over her.

She doesn't feel nothing. Feeling nothing would be the easy path. But no; she smiles. There's relief. Relief, and perhaps a hint of satisfaction. She lets out a choked, sobbed breath of relief and slumps onto Orochi's shoulders, leaning her weight on him.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "I might sleep better because of that."

"Glad to know one of us will," Coyote says, rubbing at his nose in a vain attempt to get the stench out. Eventually he stops and looks down at the pit, letting loose a sigh. "Gods, what an awful night."

  
\---

  
It's a dark and stormy night; but neither stay forever. Neither can.

Morning finds the city changed. All of the old Champoori families are rounded up and executed in public for the conspiracy of the Firefly.

The dead escaped the northern side of containment and ravaged civilians in the tumbling heap that is the Sprawl. It's bad, but it's noot that bad. It's going to take a while to get rid of all of them, stuck in the catacombs as they are.

Jangma has complete and total control over the Five Fingers, and, though he may have lost his legs, he's more than made up for it with the ability to openly work with Orochi's talon-captains.

The Nagara manor is burned down then blasted with sanctifying light. Orochi oversees it personally.

The Five Fingers lost a great deal of people. Pockets of the city are no longer theirs, and everyone knows it. But they also know they can't last--the Five Fingers will crush them. And soon.

A statue of Tenepeshu, sorcerously hewn, is raised in place of the Prasadi sculptures in First Rise Square near Orochi's clinic. It's open defiance now, its rulers plainly known--and what will come of that, will come.

And in that clinic a young boy sits, and he listens, to all the events of the night past.  
Sinla holds his head in his hands, looking equally exasperated as horrified. "And you set a painting on fire," he says slowly, as if he can't believe his own words. "With yourselves inside it."

Coyote shrugs, a drink in hand. He takes a sip from it as he looks at Sinla with tired eyes. He's back in his human shape now, but that isn't what makes him seems smaller than he was yesterday. It is his weariness, the slump of his shoulders and lines etching his face, that stand out compared to his usual quiet confidence.

"Seemed a good idea at the time."

Curio is nearby, waiting by Blink's bed. She needs to hear from her. She needs to learn. She must know why she was subjected to all things she had been subjected to. It must make sense.

Bian spreads leans against the wall. She's got bags under her eyes and clearly needs sleep. "That wasn't my favourite bit," she says darkly. "I came back to help."

And Orochi is...as unblemished, untouched as ever. Hands folded behind his back, a cup of tea on the table, a tongue of steam curling from the surface and a kettle on a small stove (always the gracious host). Looking mild, as politely indifferent as ever for all the blood on his hands. All the gore that should be staining his clothes.

But it worked out, didn't it?

Through decisive action and a layer of lies and half-truths and a few strokes of luck: it all worked out.

And everything that didn't is fixable: the dead will be hunted down, the dissidents suppressed, Jangma's legs, even, either with the Either or a favor from him shahan-ya or with his own skill, will be restored in time. And in the interim: his personal projects, fat files with neat, handwritten plans and sealed orders. Titles at once grandiose and clinical.

He quietly sips his tea in the background.  
"I suppose," Sinla says at length, "that this is your mission successful. You've played kingmaker and shuffled yourself, somehow, into the throne. And now the city can know a measure of peace, I hope. So... congratulations."  
He huffs, lips quirking into a tiny smile.

A snort, and Coyote takes another sip of his drink. "It's not quite tied up that cleanly, kid."  
"Isn't it?" The boy sips his tea, face pleasantly neutral.

Wren just sits, staring sideways into a wall. They're clean now. They're better-ish now.

But they mostly want to leave forever.

And Sinla can't help but see it, he knows what to look for, he can't not see it. The way Orochi's eyes flick to Coyote, to Wren. Loose ends and liabilities but- well. That's fixable, isn't it?

"Nothing ever ends," Bian says, looking up at the ceiling. But her eyes flick to Orochi. "He's unleashed the Fingers with his alliance, and Prasad will not forget this. No doubt their embassy is already aware of how the symbols of their authority have been demolished - and this on top of the theft of their treasury? The Fingers have declared war." She shakes her head. "I'm just a lounge singer. Not a general. But I can smell war on the air."

Coyote nods. "Prasad's going to want their pound of flesh."

Wren's fingers dig into their leggings. It's deep enough to draw blood. Their teeth are audibly chattering.

"We have time, at least," he says, as if they were discussing the weather, "We've purchased that much; and with the embassy in chaos, members of their diplomatic staff wanted criminals, and their access to funds sadly depleted, we have room to work. War might be on the air but there's no army on our doorstep. Not yet."  
Sinla stretches and yawns. "Well," he says, "at least the storm's passed. We have actual sunlight now. So, unless one of you stops me, I'm going to go for a walk."

A gentle breeze, a scent of life in the sterile clinic, wafts through. The boy pads to the door and opens it; his heart-shaped face is beatific in the sunlight.

"I'm going to enjoy it while I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEcqHA7dbwM


	10. For The Man Who Has Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking place after the fourth session in Exhale, Orochi and Jangma chat.

Orochi's office - no, not the clinic; he's moved up in the world, and moved on - is a secure, rectangular room with no windows, lit from within with thrumming awakened jade. The walls and floor are drab and lifeless as befits an old Shogunate warehouse, covered in things of medicine, thaumaturgy and paperwork.

Orochi is cross-legged on white sitting cushions, poring intently over scrolls and notes. He has information on all the happenings in the city, now. The dossiers of all the other Lunars in the city is in his hands, and periodically he scribbles little notes in with an inked quill.

A cobalt hand tugs at his shirt. Jangma, shirtless, legless from the knees down, scowling up at the snake--but his eyes are smiling. They've been having a good time in the large cot in the corner. Much to the shock of anyone who's ever met Jangma, he's a needy fuck.

"I said, 'hey'. How you doin' there handsome?"

Papers rustle, he gently folds the top of the current sheaf over his fingers, looking down at Jangma. And oh wouldn't people shiver to see that expression on his face, that slow bemused blinking, that smile he favors the other man with: almost shy, almost vulnerable, almost human. It's like a fresh cut garland draped around a bloody corpse's neck. Rotted food lovingly plated on fine china. Incongruous. Clashing in the way that jars the nerves, jangles the senses; a touch of the uncanny.

The stuff ghost stories are made of really.

But still. It's easier here, in this room with no windows. It's easier here in this room with one door, nestled deep in the heart of what he's building, what he's grown. In the privacy of this place where everything is his and the rest of the world might as well not exist. And doesn't that say all kinds of things all on its own?

He carefully, carefully, sets the quill back in the small well, not spilling so much as a drop of black. And leans down, brushing back a lock of cobalt hair. "I..." he says, considering, weighing, "Am doing well."

"And you?"

"Eh. I'm gettin' used to this." Jangma gestures with one tattooed arm to his legs. He grins up at Orochi. "I'm even more of a tripod now by comparison. So that's not all bad."

"Crass," he says fondly, his hand lingering, gently slipping down to the side of his face. Tracing his features, his cheekbone, down the strong jawline, thumb brushing his lips. "As always. But, ah, don't get too comfortable. It's only a temporary state of affairs I'm afraid."

"We'll have you swaggering around again by Water's end. Wood at the latest."

Jangma stretches out contentedly, like a snake sunning itself on rocks. "Truth be told, I don't mind a whole lot. I can still float around. And it's not like I need to prove anything at this point. We run this town now. We finally did it." He smiles, teeth gleaming white. "So why not get comfortable?"

"Don't see what the point of all this is if we don't get to enjoy it..." His eyes take a moving tour of Orochi, shameless, amused, and - impressive, considering that they're lovers - tastefully offensive.

He opens his mouth to reply, to side-step the -hah- thrust, to riposte, to let the dance continue but there's a small catch in his chest, a slight hitch to his breath and his eyes flicker away once (just once) but Jangma sees it. Orochi doesn't do anything as base, as blatant, as flush full in the cheeks. But oh there's a little color by his ears, the corner of his mouth twitching up. His hand down to the other man's chest now, resting on the warm sapphire skin, feeling the corded strength below. The Lunar weighing his choices, the time left in the day and oh wouldn't so much of Champoor be startled to see this. Jangma's companion, his partner in crime, the Lunar who orchestrated or helped arrange so much of the past few days uncertain. Almost shy.

"The reward for work well done is more work. In...all things."

"But."

"You are right," he muses, "Failing to appreciate what we've won, what we've taken- that would be a waste all it's own."

Jangma stares up through lidded eyes. "So then why am I feeling like you're struggling to do just that?"

The words hurt all the more for their kindness.

A moment of silence, the smile slipping. Replaced by- not quite a scowl, no. But something moody. Brooding. He sighs, a sour note creeping into his voice- and he doesn't bother denying it. With anyone else he would. Anywhere else he might. But with him, here: "The others," he says simply. There's no real question as to who he's talking about.

"Ah." That's all he says. That's all he needs to say--he understands exactly what Orochi means without any further elaboration. And isn't that just the worst best part? (Or is it the best worst part?) That Jangma knows. That under the braggadocio and ego, he's observant, and even, at times, empathetic.

He rests one hand on his chest, entwining it with Orochi's. He squeezes. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Mnm," he motions at the stacks of paper with his free hand, organized almost-chaos around his chambers. A painstakingly commissioned map of the city pinned up on one wall. "That's what I'm trying to determine. Wren -that small slip of a thing- is easy enough. They're all but eager to leave this place. Curio I will...send away, I think. She's always been unstable but recent weeks have painted a worrying trend, and her utterly unbound. Yes. I could arrange a voyage elsewhere in the Dreaming Sea for her. Or tutelage under an Elder Lunar."

"The man who calls himself Coyote and the woman who calls herself Vo Bian concern me the most. The former is zealous, in his own way and I think decidedly my enemy. The latter is either startlingly naive or a consummate actor but..."

He trails off.

He squeezes Jangma's hand back. And there's so much bound up in that, in that contact, that unwillingness to let go.

"I'll find the answer." I won't let them jeopardize this.

"A way to resolve this satisfactorily, for all involved." I won't let them take this away.

"Don't I always?" Never.

"You're full of shit," the monsoon god says bluntly. "But I love you. So I'm gonna believe you for right now--if you can promise me one thing."

"Ah?" He asks, eyes trained on Jangma. Uncertain. A little wary. But he's not looking away either.

"I'm not young like you, Orochi. Yeah, I may be young for a god, but I'm eighty monsoons old and I've been in the game for most all of those seasons." Jangma's eyes shimmer, and he grips Orochi's delicate hand in both his own. "But I've learned that you can't just have things, just to have them. So promise me. You don't have all of this..."

Everything. Us.

"... just because you lost it all once. Because if that's the case--if this all is because you can't tolerate losing anything.... you're gonna lose everything.

"Promise me you don't want it all just to want."

A finger with a elegantly lacquered nail gently traces over Jangma's knuckles. The man's eyes searching his face. The room is hushed, all but silent between them. "I-" he starts.

"I promise," he says, his voice soft, small. It sounds a little like "I don't know". A little like "I want to". A little like "I love you too." And for a moment, just a moment, Jangma sees a flicker of someone else. Someone he's never really met before. A soft man, a shy man in scarlet robes, a man who never, ever would have met him in a million years. Who never could have imagined this in his headiest dreams, his deepest nightmares.

And then he's gone.

And it's just Orochi again, smoothing over the fracture with meticulous motion, with ease born of long. Long. Repetition. "Now," he says lightly as he lifts Jangma's hand to his lips, "I do have some actual work to get to and you are a beautiful distraction. But a distraction nonetheless."

"...Ah. But. I suppose I can spare a little more time~" And his smile is a delicate, dangerous, and hungry creature. Longing and loving and half-starved for all manner of beautiful things.

  
\---

He's alone now. Jangma's gone, dazed and sated and still all but catcalling over his shoulder; doing his best legless, levitating, post-sex saunter out the door. Gone to tend to his own business with the new Five Fingers. Gone to get some kind of work done today too (as late as it is). But gone nonetheless.

He takes most of the warmth with him.

The room is pale. The room is white lit. The room is immaculate. He sits cross-legged on a pillow, neat sheaves of paper arrayed in front of him. What flush there is slowly fading, his breathing long since slowed, his heart keeping time. He eyes the files contemplatively. Almost meditatively. An Immaculate monk turning a koan over in his mind as somewhere the wind blows and the rain falls.

The file on Curio is the thickest. The fattest. He's had time with her, months and months of it, following an intermittent trail of destruction, of hoarse testimony and scarred rumor, all the way back to distant Ysyr.

The file on Coyote is less than half its size but sizable in its own right. Neatly correlated correspondence from the Nameless Lair, a few missives in Ranotis na-Raya's hand. A few brief replies from his fellow Ashen Moons, terse more from a lack of information than a lack of affection. Not as much as he would like but enough, enough to make a start. To paint a more complete picture of the taciturn man.

The files on Wren and Vo Bian are the slimmest. And the bulk of the former is mostly a list of suspected robberies and seductions plus a handful of personal observations via brief interaction. The latter isn't even that. Just a few loose sheets of speculation, the start of a discrete inquiry into the Lady's Smile, and nothing.

The only sounds in the room are the shuffle of paper under elegant fingers, and the buzzing of a desperate fly, caught in a corner spiderweb. But there's no spider.

Just the struggling buzz, buzz, buzz of a thing already dead.

With slow, delicate, deliberate motion he tugs the last stack of papers towards him. Pages and pages in a meticulous hand, titled in bold characters with one word, one name: ENDYMION.

Scarlet eyes flicker towards the map across the room, the colored pins staked into the population-dense Sprawl, the slum-stacked-upon-slum mess that clings to Champoor like barnacles on a sea-side stone. He rereads the initial reports for the third (the fourth? The fifth?) time today, all the words already memorized.

It's not much, not yet. The work crews are still being organized. Pacification efforts are continuing, against the Dead and the would-be fiefdoms that exist in that tangle of narrow alleys and vertical tenements. Equipment is being procured.

Raw materials are being sourced.

But ah, his hand still trembles as he turns the pages, and is it with dread, desire, or some long latent sense of guilt, the words Jangma said echoing off the hollows of his skull?

It doesn't really matter.

At long last he can begin.


	11. Sober to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wren and Orochi. Warning: this one's a lewd at first.

  
Among dim lights and ruined streets was an unimportant rich man's house, who did unimportant rich person things, such as exploiting his workers and being rich. He was a good looking man, a bit snobbish, broad-shildered, well-chieseled and finely groomed. He had an apathetic wife, three terrible children, and a house full of servents. But, more importantly, the man was very, very open to the idea of hiring whores.

More specifically, he had hired three, one was a young man from down the street. One was a twenty-something nobody that he had picked up from a brothel.

And the third was a Wren, who was currently bouncing on top of him. A moaning, loud Wren, who loved it whenever the noble fucked them, whenever his cock thrust into them, whenever they bounced and moaned and took another in their mouth and a third on their cheek.

They popped it out of their mouth, saliva dripping from their mouth. "F-fuck me harder, come on, that's right." They huffed. "You fucking love this, don'tcha. You want this don'tcha."

The noble didn't say anything. He was already starting to sweat. What he did instead was nod. That's all he could do.

Wren pressed their hands against their face, rubbed it against their cheeks and down their chest. They closed their eyes. "Oooh, you're so big. Ugh, the biggest cock in all of..." They opened their eyes, and they froze mid-pump.

The man's head had split wide-open. One eye was beaten into jelly, the other hung out at an odd angle. Skull fragments hung out of the skin, the brain leaking out of the head. Teeth threatened to drop out of the mouth and the lower jaw worked fruitlessly as the corpse in front of him gasped for breath. The corpse in front of him bounced with a little bit of momentum, before the eye in the skull turned towards him.

"The biggest in...?"

Wren's breath caught in their throat. They recoiled from the bed, his cock slipped right out of them as they shrieked. They shrieked and ran themself against the back wall, before they ran out of the room, down the stairs past the shocked wife and into the streets. They scrambled across the road, running about fifteen meters before they realized that they were bare-assed and outside. They scrambled around a corner, slammed their back against the wall.

Their hands were jittery. They couldn't stop panting. They were still erect but it was already starting to go down. They buried their face in their hands.

"W-whatthefuckwhatthefuck."

Clear nights. Starry skies. The new Champoor (for now, for now). Slow-roasting in its own heat, steaming as sun bakes still water, with only the mercy of sunset to give some relief. The alleyway is dark. The alleyway is dry. The alleyway is cool. Somewhere insects whine, a somewhere someone is laughing, or shouting. Anger and joy made indistinct, unintelligible, by the distance and the stone between. Wren sits with their back against the wall, breath inevitably slowing, the moment healing or just denied. The Lunar more than half-nude and exposed.

They are not alone.

The soft sound of sandals on the main road audible in the hush, coming closer, coming nearer. An easy, measured pace. Volume rising, growing louder.

Stopping.

There is a man all in white at the alley mouth, layered despite the warm late-Summer evening and sweating not a drop from it. His ivory coat billowing a little, just a little, stirred by the slight breeze. Funny: even at night he still wears that hat. And even with their eyes all Wren can really see is that gentle, perfect, porcelain smile. He doesn't pretend this is coincidence. He doesn't pretend this is anything but design and if he is at all discomfited by the other Lunar's nakedness he shows not a drop of that either.

"Would you like some tea, Wren?" Orochi asks kindly.

Wren jumps two meters into the air "FUckyoufuCKo-" they slide against the ground, hands up, palms out as they look at their would-be assailant and...

Oh, it's just a snake. They relax just a little, the cold breeze finally hitting them in the alleyway. "W-ho-ohh it's you." They relax just a little. "It's uh...whatsyourface." They look the man up and down, as the question finally probes their bird brain. "Uh...I...I guess?"

To be honest they weren't thinking about tea in the slightest. They were thinking about cocks and the split head of the man they just fucked when Orochi arrived.

"Ah, wonderful," he says and he could have been talking about the weather, about some recent correspondence or the heavy splash of weighted bodies dropped in the harbor, soon to be swept out to sea. A seamless simulacra of politesse and general good manners. The situation is absurd. His smile wavers not an inch.

And then he turns and walks off, that same easy pace as he approached. Simple enough for Wren to follow, a milk-white ghost slipping deeper and deeper into the gloom.

Wren follows, not even caring all that much about the fact that they're still mostly-naked. They keep themself just a few steps behind, teeth chattering as the weather finally starts to catch up to them.

They have half a mind to ask what the fuck he's doing, why he's asking them for tea. Wren wasn't exactly a tea afficianado. "Why..." They bite their tongue. Maybe he'll answer it later.

They cover their cock, not even really out of modesty. But because it's starting to get really, really cold.

A tilt of the head, a single glimpse of scarlet, a slitted eye over one white-draped shoulder and then silence. They walk together, through the richer parts of Champoor's Uptown, safe now: the endless tide of Dead long since scourged away, the horde dispersed. At times they pass people, a few citizens of the city on some late night business, heads down, raincapes shed. Once a unit of men and women, Orochi's soldiers, in their black and navy armor. Faces masked, two disks of sapphire glass in place of eyes faintly luminous in the dark. Nobody stops them. They are not troubled.

The teahouse is a small affair, tucked into the sprawl of homes and estates and tangling streets that is the elevated district. All close comfort, elegant and private; scarcely larger than the ward of Orochi's clinic for all that. In the back the sounds of cooking, the flicker of lights. They sit alone at a little table, the inside of the house lantern-lit and yet swathed in shadows; soft and gentle.

A man brings them a kettle and cups in silence and exits once more, the only indication that they aren't the last two people in Champoor. The last people in Creation.

The leaves slowly steep.

"A trying night?" He asks, and for all that his voice is gentle it's almost jarring to have the hush broken so, taking the mind a minute to really process the disruption to the quiet.

"I...yeah." Wren rubs their face. The tea is actually pretty calming right now. "I was simply trying to get...my stuff down. You know, the usual." They look down to their groin. "But then I just...well I lost the mood and, had to leave. The man was an underwhelming lay, really."

"He was big but he just couldn't deliver." They shrug.

Innuendo laced and absently crass and it's almost unsettling, almost uncanny, the way it all hits Orochi and just...ceases to exist. Vanishing into an empty, echoing, nothing between them.

"Ah," he says, "I see."

"I must apologize, we haven't really had occasion to speak privately since you arrived in Champoor. And recent events have had me somewhat preoccupied. I'm sure you understand."

"I mean, I do." Wren sighs. "Very few people can afford to spend the time to know me. I'm just, well, you know." Wren kept their legs crossed. "Me~. I mean, hard to beat that." Wren probably knew this might be a bit presumptuous. But then again...they're Wren.

"I do have to question the wisdom of a man who is so preoccupied with this city."

"Oh?" Orochi asks mildly, "Is that so? You're from Champoor, aren't you?"

Nothing Wren has ever told him. Nothing Wren has ever said. A minor theory, meticulously researched. A handful of chance encounters, friends of "friends" and shared circles, figures glimpsed now and then across a crowded room.

  
"This shithole? Perhaps." Wren leans on their elbows. "I mean, it's hardly a secret. I was spawned from this carcass, yes."

"And little love to spare for it I see."

"This town could rot for all I care." Wren says. "You're right, in that I left and expected to stay gone. But I suppose that's the curse that comes with my strength."

"Or, rather a fee."

"Does godly power come with a subscription?"

"Of a kind," he says agreeably, untroubled by the venom, the raw hostility dripping from each and every word, the arrogance and the ego in this small, thin, slight person, who not an hour ago was sweating and curled up in an alleyway. He sips his own tea. "So I suppose the question then becomes: what are you going to do now?"

"The task the Silver Pact charged you with is completed. I will include your," a hairline fracture, the briefest of pauses, "contributions, in my report to my shahan-ya. And, as you said, there is little keeping you in Champoor."

"Perhaps you're right." Wren mutters. "Well, maybe I can go back to what I do normally. Fuck and take." They flexed their fingers. "I mean, what else is there to do in Champoor? Or anywhere else. I mean, what else can I do with these powers but use them to my fullest? I did earn them." Wren presses their cheek into their hand. "I might as well...trot my way across Champoor a little. I mean, I did remember one of the things I enjoyed. The noblemen are rich. And virile."

"Mnm," he says, an ambiguous sound as he faintly tilts his head. Neutral.

"They were more the latter outside of town. Quite nice, but not so nice to steal from. I almost felt bad."

"And," he says politely, kindly, "If I was to provide you with the means required to travel elsewhere? To any other wealthy city with- ah...'virile', men."

And for all the grace and decorum the word is still flat on his tongue. Sterile, almost clinical.

"Well, perhaps." Wren slumps off. "I mean, I'm kind of okay where I am now. I hate this city, but sucking it dry could yield something." They don't seem to notice the tone of Orochi's voice. That, or they don't care, though they probably should.

There is a long, long pause.

Orochi sets his tea cup down.

"Wren," he says gently, "I'm going to be forthright with you. You know little of the Pact. You know little of us. And you know little of me. That is...acceptable, one day that will change but it needn't be today. What you need to understand is that you have no claim to the city of Champoor. To the people within, its wealth and resources. They are not yours."

"They are mine."

A roll of the wrist, a gentle wave out the drawn-back shutters at the city, twitching in it's cold-sweat sleep, still wracked with nightmares of the past weeks, the dread and palsied rot of the past decade and more, "This is all mine now."

"And I have use for it."

"Thus, when I offer you passage from Champoor to anywhere you desire, anywhere at all understand:"

"I am not one of your companions, lavishing you with gifts and praise because it is what I believe you inherently deserve- rather these are the conditional terms of your withdrawal from this city. My city."

"This is your negotiated surrender. And my magnanimity."

Wren stares at him. "I have a question then. Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that? My negotiated surrender? Have you met me? I am me. I don't have time to deal with your petty fucking politics who do you think you are?" They stand up, their legs behind the table, their face right in front of Orochi's.

"What makes you think I'd be afraid of-"

They stand, they lean in, a single aggressive motion towards Orochi.

And the air behind him ripples as if underwater.

Wren can feel it, feel the flowing power, feel the elemental energy radiating out across the teahouse. It's like plunging their hand into a current and feeling the water whipping past, watching the surface, the glassy skin, churn and lash against their wrist. Teacups shudder. The table shudders. Slowly, slowly, the intangible spirit slips into sight. bleeding through the world. From the half-real to the real.

An obscene fusion of one of those man-of-war jellyfish that hang, iridescent and lethal, tendrils trailing down a dozen meters or more. Of a chorus of viperous serpents. Of an armored man. A titanic, hulking, sinuous shape that has to hunch its "shoulders" down just to fit within the shop, helmed head opened up into a single, flower-like maw. Long filament tentacles draped over half the room. Slithering against the walls. Boneless limbs twined with countless sapphire-headed serpents. A colossus in cerulean and black and silver.

Like the moon's light cast through the surface of the sea.

Wren recognizes it.

The bound spirit the sorcerer used to break the undead. It's translucent stomach bloated by the end of the night, full of slow-dissolving bones and bio-luminescence.

"I," Orochi says, his voice utterly unchanged and all the more terrible for it, "Am Orochi, the Eight-Way-Wyrm. Servant of Ma-Ha-Suchi. He who will usher in the new world."

"Sit down, Wren."

And Wren sat down. Their eyes wide, their breath fast. Their legs are quivering as they truly realize how small they are. They breathe in hard, their chest rises and falls as it really sinks in.

"A...ha..."

Orochi quietly pours them more tea.

A thin ribbon of steam curling from the surface of the cup. He continues talking as he sets the kettle down, his voice not unkind. "With your talents you learned how to capture the eye, enrapture the heart, how to shape yourself into something desirable. I recognize the methods. Curio is much the same, in her own way."

"Do you know what I learned how to do Wren?"

They notice the tea but they dare not touch it. They see the snake but they dare not speak. They keep shuddering, their teeth chattering. Then finally the bird finds some words to speak. "I-I don't...what did you learn how to do?"

Orochi lifts his cups to his lips, he takes a long sip and Wren can see his eyes. Scarlet slits through the silvery steam. "I learned how to see the flaws, in this world of meat. The fractures in the bone, the tears in the muscle. The disease within."

"And- meat it is meat, you know."

"Whether it's a nation. A city. A person."

Wren twitches at the last word.

"You talk about what we can do as if we are entitled to it, as if we earned it. There is nothing we could have ever done to deserve what we have become. Even Coyote, for all his myopia, would agree: we are the few, privileged beyond all compare, with power to shake the foundations of Creation."

"And we are monsters for it."

Wren twitches again, before they lurch forward. "B-being a monster is better than being a fucking corpse on the side of the road!"

Their voice cracks at the last word. It's lacking the conviction they showed Coyote. Their decorum is gone. Their hair is getting messier.

An the corner of Orochi's mouth twitches up, just a little, just a little. A crack in the ceramic, a fracture in the fine glaze. "Is it?"

Wren is visibly shaking. They don't know if it's anger or fear but either way they can't get any more words out.

"We are those too strong to die, too weak to live, forever beyond the Dragon's judgement. And I say this so that you will understand, the truth of what we're discussing as we sit here. So that you will understand something of yourself and something of me."

A cup clinks on a china saucer.

"Wren," he says as he tips his head, leaning in a little (just a little). Long black hair framing delicate features. His hat on the table, beside his hand.

"Champoor is mine."

"What do you think I'd do to protect it?"

Wren looks away and towards the floor, like a child. "I...you would..." They swallow. They try to keep their voice down, to regain some kind of control. "What would you do?"

A gentle exhale. Something that might have been a laugh. The silence stretches on between them. Orochi doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. He just...lets the quiet linger, until the last of the steam is gone from the cup.

"Now," he says pleasantly, "Until arrangements are made and the last details finalized, you will behave yourself won't you? I don't particularly care as to who you find to penetrate you, but for now I am your host."

"And you wouldn't make a mess of my home."

"Would you?"

Wren looks away. A pouting child. Their hand clenches.

They're back on the street again. Back in a corner. Back in a pool of their own sick. Back back back back where they were left to rot.

"No." They mutter. "I wouldn't."

It shouldn't feel like this should it? That kind of cloying, jagged feeling, two hours too late to the start line and the lead runner's already collected his winnings and returned home at the head of a crowd, the people's champion; made all the worse for how Orochi isn't gloating, isn't cackling with glee, isn't hurling slurs and abuse. It'd almost be easier if he was. Something, at least, to soften the bleak, naked truths he's spoken tonight.

But maybe it makes its own kind of sense.

It's a new dawn in Champoor.

That's usually when Wren's sliping out the window anyway.

But instead of a window, they walk out of the door. They don't slink away like they normally do. They don't hide. They don't sashay their hips or stick out their tongue or anything suggestive. They just...walk.

They walk outside. Into the streets of Champoor.

Eventually they find their loincloth and belongings and steal them back. Eventually they find themself something to distract them.

There was little else the bird could do when it was spared by the snake.


	12. Let Me Play Among The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Main session five.

The city is different, this dry, sunny morning.

Champoor practically defines different, of course. It's glitzy, it's gaudy, it's soaked to the soul. City of a thousand vices, and so on and so forth. But the eternal rain has come and gone. Tenepeshu, has come and gone. Undead crowd lightless catacombs and raincapes aren't worn every day, after the Long Night, as the locals have taken to calling it. The air is different.

Everyone in the city is different now, too. More gangs in open defiance of the Five Fingers' new leadership, even if they're all short-lived. The Five Fingers themselves, under new leadership. Refugees actually getting aide (of some kind), instead of just being left to die at the shores of the bay.

The overall feeling in the city where you can do anything is, for once...

Tentative, fragile optimism.

New day. 

New Champoor. 

New you.

Curio hasn't done much lately; in fact, she's barely done anything since that awful nigth. It spends the days and nights perched on Blink's bedpost, like some strange gargoyle, haunched over the recuperating woman, waiting for her to finally awake. So that she can learn.

So that she can know.

It is only after several motionless days that it moves again, and searches out Orochi. Curio needs to speak with him.

Bian watches the sun rise from the window, dressed in a soft grey morning gown. Her hands are folded in front of her; her eyes sparkle as she looks over the city.

Her little organisation is growing. In times of such dreadful, dreadful violence... well, calls for people to band together and work as one and just be nice to one another are very alluring. She's been talking to the owners of the clubs, the dock merchants, people who rely on the flow of traffic. The people who work behind the scenes and make sure that the world is there for the lords and ladies and swaggering masters of the world.

She's heard the whispers. The rumours. The refusal to be cut out of this new world - and the fear of what's coming. Because Prasad will turn its teeth to Champoor. There's really no question about it. And such a bright morning might just be the prelude to more inclement weather.

There's a knock at her door - it's Albe, her hair up in a tight bun, her spectacles glinting in the light.

"Reports from the firesand traders, as requested," she says.

Bian takes the notes. "Oh, thank you thank you thank you," she gushes, fingers flicking through them as she scans down inventories and client-lists and names and traders. "Have they got back about the negotiations for buying the fireworks for the grand party? I think it's important to show everyone how wonderful things are, don't you think? And for that, you need proper celebrations! To keep everyone's spirits up!"

"Not yet, ma'am."

"Darn. Well, tell me if they say anything."

Her procurer steps out, and Bian sits down to leaf through the notes.

He did it.

That's the thought that slithers through the inside of his brain as he stands at the window of the towering structure in Champoor's heart and looks out upon the city that he and Jangma took.

He did it. He was smart enough, fast enough, decisive enough, lucky enough to make it to shore. The great wave carried him, it did not drag him under. And the potential now- the possibilities that unfurl before him are dizzying in their scope. Haunting in their magnitude. He wasn't lying about what he said to the little wren.

A new day is coming.

A new world order.

And he...he will not be left behind. Not after this. Not again.

"Orochi."

It's practice that keeps him from flinching, that keeps his reaction from being anything but a small start. A little twitch of something like unease, something like half-muted, mostly-murdered guilt. And then in a second even that's gone.

"Ah," he says, as if Curio had arrived a little late to breakfast, a little late to an appointment, as if he didn't know exactly where she'd been, exactly what she'd been doing (and oh if only, if only, he knew what she was thinking), "Curio, how does the day find you?"

"There is a girl" Curio says, perching itself on a nearby stool; there is something strange and tense about its posture, and stranger still about the lines and drawings adorning its shell. Soft, blacks and grays paint into an image of a flayed body, lines arrayed together as exposed muscle or bone. "The girl is bolted to a table. The entire room is brightly lit. She is gagged or otherwise prevented from screaming, but she tries; she is in much pain. There is a man above her. Tall, gaunt. Very jovial, but now focused. Professional. Carefully, he scrapes her body clean of skin, because he does not need it - he will make her skin out of something else, something better, stronger, more beautiful."

"And does he?" The man in white asks mildly, a pale silhouette in the early morning sunlight.

"To a point, yes. But then his assistant - a very scared little man, who knows how close he is to being that caracass on the table - informs him about something. Then the man sighs and orders the caracass to be taken away; he can't work on it for the rest of the day."

Curio's tone is perfectly dispassionate and very, very much not human.

"Now they take her... it away. But then, they never work on it again, and it goes rotten, or spoiled. Then some servant unscrews it from the table and takes, with utmost disgust, to a compost pile, where all such refuse - there is much of it - goes."

"Ah, and is she thrown away?" He asks, in the exact same tone as the second question, as the first, a gentle prompting. Untroubled by the subject matter. Unconcerned by her tone. Unafraid (and here, now, we see a little of the lies. Because Curio is all volatility, all mercurial power and lethal ability, slaved to impulse and whim and her own incomprehension and he can chart the decay can't he? The slow degeneration over days, ever since the city's fragile equilibrium was fatally disrupted.)

"She is. But I know that. I know what happens next. I know what happened there. But-" there is a pause. It extends. Curio climbs down from its perch, starts pacing the room. "-but do I? It was me. I remember. I remember what was done to me. I remember it all. So clearly; the man who flayed that girl had seven buttons on his coat. Seven, three jade, three gold, one shining blue and sorcerous. His eyes were the colour of a night sky; he had a bit of his meal stuck between his teeth - something green."

It grinds to a halt.

"I remember it all now. But- no, I remember the images. I remember events. But, but there is something else. I remember it, Orochi, and I feel nothing. Nothing. It's empty. I am watching from the side. It is not happening to me. It is happening to me. But not to me. I don't even feel the pain. I remember the pain. I know there are no words to express it. But I do not feel it. Not even an echo. Nothing. Empty. Void. Like a bottle with all of its contents drained. Just a shell."

"Shell of a memory. Shell of a person. There should be anger there. I know I should be feeling anger. I know that there was anger there. But it is gone, gone, gone. Nothing. Empty. Nothing. Empty. Orochi."

"Orochi."

"You fix bodies."

"You fix memories?"

"I cannot," he says gently, "The mind is based in meat, the soul is an organ, and memory is a product of both. But...I am not skilled enough to shape thought as easily as flesh. There are options, none of them are guaranteed or certain. They may ease your pain. They may do nothing. They may make it worse. I-"

"There is no pain."

"There is nothing, Orochi. There is nothing. Nothing! But it cannot be gone. I can feel it. It follows me. It's my shadow. I see it when I look behind, but then it vanishes. It- I felt it. I had it in my hands, when I destroyed Cakori Buno, when I ripped his heart out. But I allowed it to go. I could have- I could have- I could-" every word, every syllabe it speaks now is a dissonance, broken glass grating on rough ceramic, a sound so shrill that it could hurt. And yet, yet it is still a melody, still a harmony.

Beauty doesn ot leave Curio, not for one moment.

A pause, he drifts nearer, a slow, flowing motion as he closes the distance between himself and Curio. The touch of nails to her chin, paint and lacquer clicking softly on the shell as he lifts her chin. Her blank, painted face tilted up and left there, to look him in the eye. Posed like a mannequin with clever, hidden joints and caught gears.

"Curio," he says quietly, "...There is a phenomenon in medicine called the phantom pain. Have I told you of it? No- no I have not, I do not think you had cause to ask before. It occurs when a limb is lost, severed in some trauma. Amputated to save the rest of the body. Gone utterly. Separated in totality and destroyed."

His hand falls to his side, he motions with the other, a tilting of the palm.

"And yet the patient can still feel the shape of it, anchored to the stump. And at times even a kind of particular agony."

"The absent ache of nothing at all."

"The mind is meat Curio, it is no different from a limb in many respects."

Curio feels strange. All tense on the inside; as if there was something straining against the carapace of the skin, trying to find that one weak point to burst open and finally breathe the air its been denied for so long. But the shell was made strong, oh so strong. Blades break upon the porcelain; what can feelings and memories hope to do to it? It roils inside. Swarms. It panicks and flails and in every movement Curio feels it shift inside of her, banging on the walls of its prison.

How long has it been there?

How long? How long has she been ignoring it?

"Orochi" it speaks, she speaks again. It's a plea. "I- I- I-..."

But the words can come out no more than the disquiet sea. They die, and she remains it, a motionless, skinless statue, watching herself from a distance, like one would appreciate a fine curio in an antiquarian's hands.

And this is the contradiction isn't it? The tension. A dear friend, poised at the precipice, and the companion begs to push her one way and the monster the other and the beneath the placid, professional mask the serpent squirms with fraught tension. Swallowing itself in its own unease, so unsure, so uncertain.

But, ah, he is a physician.

And a surgeon.

And in the end the choice is no choice at all, not really. "I do not have a solution Curio, I am sorry. I only have a suggestion. Blink -the woman at the clinic- she is Ysyri too. Speak with her. Talk to her. You share a homeland, you may share much more besides. She is a bridge to the past in a way, a tether to long-torn nerves. "

"Yes."

"Yes, a bridge."

And just like that, she is gone.

Back to the bedside.

Back to being this perverse bird, waiting for any sign that whatever was lost can be found. Because it must be. Because otherwise, there is no otherwise.

\---

In the end, it's very simple for Bian to decide what to do. This is a city of big, bad people, and Bian is not one of them. So before she goes about her business of talking to big, bad people, she'd like to talk to a small, good people. Person.

She finds Sinla in a back room of the Lady's Smile, nose down in a book of old folk tales about the moon.

Her perfume brings the scent of lilies and lotus flowers with her. She hasn't lit her cigarillo yet, so tucks it behind her ear. It sits there, among the carefully coifed hair, those jet-black locks teased and shaped into the styles which are so fashionable here in Champoor.

Well, no, that's not quite true. She's changed herself so her hair naturally sits like this, that when it gets wet it dries into this shape. She looks like she puts a lot more effort into her appearance than she actually does. And the irony is that this style exists to fool onlookers into thinking that the wearer put hardly any effort in. Is it more honest to take moon-given power to make the lie of appearance a truth?

That's not a question for her. Maybe someone else - maybe Orochi, maybe Coyote - might care more.

"Sinla," she says warmly, slinking in through the bead curtain. She settles herself down on the soft chair, kicking off her slippers, revealing her blue-green toenails. "I haven't caught up with you in a while. I've just been busy-busy-busy. If you don't know how it is, you will soon. It's," she sighs extravagantly, "one of the most absolutely awful parts of being an adult."

Sinla closes his book and offers his hostess a smile. He's doing better lately, ever since the Long Night. Yes, she only hears him crying for a few hours early every morning, now, as opposed to all night. He looks healthier, and less wilted.

And, of course, he still trusts her the most out of any of her unstable Circle. Orochi may treat him like an adult, but Bian is nice to him. He thinks Bian is a good person, and in Champoor, that's a rare thing.

"Good morning miss Bian," he says brightly. "You've all been very busy lately it seems..."

Too busy to visit him, he doesn't say.

Her heart-shaped face falls. "I know," she says. "I'm sorry. Really, I am." She sits there, expression conflicted. "So how have you been?" she asked. "What's that you're reading? It looks very long. I..." she giggles, "... well, I've never really been one for books. But you always seem to have your nose in one."

Her posture, her expression, the way she talks - it all radiates her concern. Her worry. This beautiful lounge singer is worried - scared, even, and she's trying to hide it but even the child in front of her can read it easily. She's just trying to distract him, as she pretends everything is fine.

"I am... well enough." His face falls a little - he wasn't intending, or expecting, to talk about himself. But Bian is just so inviting, he can't help himself. "Truthfully, I'm rather lonely. Orochi only visits me sometimes - we're 'partners' according to him - and those conversations are always a little scary. He's a little scary." Sinla shivers. "Mostly I just read, because I have little else to do - I don't get to go outside much, and usually there isn't much need for me, so all I can do is watch and listen, and..."

"He is scary," Bian say softly. "He's scary for what he is, and he's scary for his master."

"I asked him what makes someone a monster." Sinla draws up his knees and hugs them. "Do you know what he told me?"

"What did he say?"

"He said...." Sinla swallows nervously. Like he's afraid Orochi will see him, hear him. Or worse: that he'll approve. "He said monsters are wounds in Creation. That they shape the world, more than the other way around. That the only chains on them are the ones they choose to have."

Bian laughs at that. It's not a sinister, melodramatic sound - it's a giggle, it's a woman laughing at a man making a fool of himself. "Oh dear, he said that." She reaches out, patting Sinla's hand. "He's such a silly. Oh, he might even believe it - if he isn't just making it up to scare you, which he might have been - but that's an excuse. Nothing more.

"But then again, I have heard things about him." She gestures up to the wall, up to the grand map of the world in inks and paint. "Orochi is from the Realm-that-Was. And they say he talks like one of their princelings. It wouldn't surprise me. But the thing about the Realm-that-Was is that it taught people that the chosen of the Moon... people like me, people like him... were monsters. Demons in flesh. Things that didn't belong in the natural order of things.

She lowers her voice. "Honestly. I think when Orochi says that, he's a scared little boy repeating stories from his childhood and claiming that they're a plus." She grins naughtily. "He's a boy swaggering around, boasting to his friends that 'look at me, I'm so mean, I'm a bad boy, I broke my mama's plates, I don't have to follow the rules'." Her mimicry is perfect. "But it's not that which makes him a monster. If he's a monster, it's not what he is; it's what he does. And what his master wants him to do."

"What does his master want him to do? I know Orochi has... he wants things. But I don't know what he's going to do." Sinla is hanging on her every word. Then a thought occurs to him.

"Do you have a master, too, Miss Bian?"

"I don't." She giggles. "I'm too much of a free soul. I had someone who helped me back when I was new to the moon's power, but we were more like friends than master and disciple. And when I went off travelling the world, she didn't want to move away from her home. I've seen her a few times since." She sighs. "Do you know the name..." she drops her voice to a whisper, "Ma-Ha Suchi?"

Sinla makes a warding gesture with his hands too fast for Bian's eyes to follow. "I have heard whispers about the goat-devil, and Orochi mentions him sometimes," he says in a low voice.

She nods, a little bobbing motion of her head. "He's a very bad man. Maybe a monster. Older than the hills and the seas. Older than Champoor. He's a wicked old man who wants to rule the world, sitting in a silver throne. Not many of us moon-chosen want that - but he thinks the world belongs to him. Because he's old - and because he's awful. He's done so many terrible things. He thinks whole cities are just... just things to expend to get his goals, like a soldier might discard an arrow he loosed. And here," her hand's wring together, "here we have Orochi. A student of that bad old man."

"I don't trust Orochi. I..." Sinla shakes his head. Bian can't get over how young he is. "I don't trust him... but I do... like? Respect? He knows what he is and he doesn't hide it. And he treats me... not well, but not badly. Fairly. He scares me, but I know him. I know where I stand with him. Truthfully, I don't have many people I can trust."

"So it's nice to have somebody like you around." He smiles shyly up at the Lunar.

She smiles back warmly. "You're sweet," she says. "Probably the nicest young man I've seen in my club in weeks." Her warm smile turns wicked. "Come on, you've been sitting around cramped up for too long. On your feet. Do you know how to dance?"

"D...dance?" Sinla flushes. "I'm not--I don't--"

She offers him her hand, pulling him up. "Now, let's see your balance." She considers him. "Shift your left foot back. Yes, good, good. And turn your right foot towards me." She raises her hand, meeting him elbow to elbow. "Now, arm around my waist."

The music of the dance hall can be heard up through the floor, dull and pulsing.

He's blushing so hard it looks like he might die. But he acquiesces--he is a proper young man of Prasad.

It would be unbecoming of someone of his jati to say no to a pretty lady.

"And... step in, right foot towards me as I step back with my right foot, back, forwards, back. Now, the same with your left foot, back, forwards, back. And we keep that up for one, two, three, four... and throw your arm out, let me twirl... you're going to need to let go of my hand so I can twirl..."

They go on like that. And Bian finds, to her genuine delight, that for all his boyish awkwardness, he's light on his feet and picks it up rather quickly. She can almost feel his mood improving, shucking the loneliness like it were a blanket.

At the end of the hour he's got it down pat - better than Bian was at his age, certainly. He's twirling around the dance floor and laughing freely, like he isn't a prisoner.

It's a lovely thing to behold.

"See," she says, beaming. "That's something my mother always used to tell me. Sitting around too much means the water in your body gets trapped up in your earth. It does you good to move around, so your mood can move on from whatever's trapping it."

"Thank you, Miss Bian!" Sinla giggles, and bows to her, palms pressed together. She just made his day. Probably his month, too. "You are too kind to me. Truly."

She drops into a curtsey, her soft morning gown shushing against the carpet. "You are too kind, my lord," she teases him, as she recovers her slippers. She pauses at the door, glancing back at him. "Perhaps we'll see if we can get some regular dance lessons for you. You have something of a talent." Her grin is impish. "Perhaps we can find you a pretty girl to learn with."

"... " Sinla opens his mouth to say something, then bites down on his tongue. He gazes up at Bian with wide, adoring eyes.

She waggles her fingers at him in farewell, and leaves through the beaded curtain.

\---

They find her in Orochi's clinic, which seems, more than ever, undeserving of that title. It's an uncanny facsimile of the thing, with most all the pretense stripped off. Orochi hasn't bothered to have it cleaned in a while--most of the equipment is gone, and thick dust lines the tabletops. 

Blink is in the back, ankle shackled to a bed. She's being treated here. And kept prisoner.

She's asleep when the Lunars come in, lidless eyes wide open and unseeing as her chest rises and falls.

Curio assumes its watch. It will watch. It will wait for the woman to wake. And then it will walk her bridge to the past and reclaim it. She will find her anger.

Her face is pale and waxy, the typical honeyed, Ysyri hue curdled to a sickly wan. She's recovering, but it's slow and arduous. It would probably be better if she got sunlight. If she got treated like a human being.

"When will she wake?"

Curio's question is answered half an hour later, when the woman stirs. She rolls over onto her side, then back again--and then, her eyes see Curio. 

They widen in fear. "G-get away, get away from me!" she sputters in Ys, trying to crawl away. But there's nowhere to go.

Curio holds her in place.

It's easy.

It's so easy.

"I saved you" it speaks. "You said something. About Ys."

"What do you know."

She tries to pull away from the shell. But she can't get away.

It won't let her.

And yet- the way it touches her. It should be mortifying. Everything about it should make her heart stop. But it doesn't. No, Curio holds her firmly, and in that grasp, there is ultimate reassurance. The promise that you won't be released. That you will be safe. That the thing that wears the skin of its own death stands between you and the horrors of the world; and with doom on your side, not even Ysyr can reach for you again.

Blink looks at Curio, at the flayed thing, and the monument to all of her nation's sins, and she sees in it the reassurance of vengeful tomorrow. And in the strength of her grip, she feels the power needed to crack the crystal thrones and bring them all down, by their own hand, by their own design. And if she had never loved anything before, and if she will never love anything again, in this moment, she loves this strength, the most beautiful promise of devastation.

The words spill from Blink's mouth in a flood, as fast as she can speak in the hiccupping Ys tongue. Curio doesn't recognize every word or phrase. Some of them are lost to it beyond the throbbing numbness. But it understands enough.

At first, it's things anyone would know. Things about Ysyr's naval power. Its canals, its sorcerers, its underclasses. Its language and culture. How lowcastes, deformed for their spiritual impurity, are drawn from outer archipelagos and Chalcedon Mountain valleys, into buildings of carved, numinous crystal. Those without magical prowess are as nothing, and if they're lucky, they're only ignored. Here her voice would be bitter. But she's talking to Curio. So she can't stay bitter.

She talks about Pinnacle. Its sorcerer god-kings, perfect in form. She talks about their hearts, and how they are the foulest things of all, rotting inside immaculate visages.

She talks about her eyelids, ripped off as a child so that she would be regarded as lowcaste. Free to abuse. She talks about the program she spent some time in as a child, and how they experimented on her spine. She remembers a man who did it to her.

She describes enduring circumstances beyond description. Her words are imperfect. They are nonsensical.

To Curio, they are painfully, maddeningly familiar.

"They are here, are they not?" it asks, holding her hand so tightly, so that she knows that they will not stay here anymore. And for Curio: all those words? They mean something. They are echoes. It can almost hear the original voice. It can almost remember the face of the girl bolted to the table. Almost. Not quite. Still a chasm.

But it will cross it soon. "They are here, are they not?" it repeats its question.

"T-th-t-they?"

"Blink. Have you been followed? Is there anyone from Ysyr in Champoor? Do they hide? Do they bid their time? Do they hunt?"

It's thoughts are simple. Bridge. Bridge. Bridge. Find the source of the echoes. See the face again. Speak. Speak. Let it all out. Release. Crack. Hatch.

Blink shakes her head. She won't stop shaking her head.

It's up and down.

It's yes.

She tries to say the words but they won't come out. Her throat is gurgling.

"Where."

Then Curio realizes something.

It turns towards Orochi.

It speaks.

"Do you know sorcery?"

"You know sorcery."

There is a pause, the moonlit specter in the corner of the false-clinic, the almost-empty room tilts his head. "I do. I-"

"Ah."

Blink keeps nodding her head. She keeps nodding and nodding and nodding--but the words won't come out.

She has to tell Curio something. But the spit is heavy in her mouth and her neck is shaking. Orochi recognizes this--it's a geas.

She opens her mouth slowly, and a sigil is apparent on her tongue: the icon of a white tower.

She has to tell Curio. It's the most important thing she can do.

A sick, wordless scream tears its way out of her mouth, and the sigil glows bright white. Her tongue, they both realize, is melting in her mouth.

"OROCHI" Curio's voice is an explosion.

It shatters glass.

"AVERT THIS!"

Curio, however, is not stupid. It knows this. It knows what is going to happen.

So it holds her steady.

It keeps her body from destroying itself.

It knows enough. And it knows that if its touch is promise and reassurance, if its touch is the silver of the moon; and to Sun may belong justice, but Luna's is vengeance. And it holds her. It holds a woman she knows nothing of, and in that touch, in that strength, is this one word, one promis.  
Endure.  
It will be made right.

And then he's there, there again, standing over her, his hat tipped back a little (just a little) enough that she can see his eyes. The slit-pupils and scarlet irises.

He touches a nail to her forehead, unperturbed by the way she thrashes and struggles against his sleek white-carapaced companion. A silver brand igniting on his brow, an argent ring. Power unspooling in the air, curling, coiling down his arm. The sleeve rolled back, the veins bulging dark.

He breathes a single word in Old Realm and with three lyrical syllables introduces catastrophic flaws into the sorcereous design.

Self replicating errors spreading, the metaphysical underpinnings fracturing and unraveling.

Degradation is inevitable.

Silver light melts in Blink's mouth. She leans forward and vomits, liquified flesh sloughing out of her mouth in a steaming green slurry. Her tongue is halfway melted--she can't talk. But the geas is broken--she can communicate now, and the shaking is now just what you'd expect of someone in as much pain as she is.

She motions with unsteady hands for something to write with.

Curo gives its hand. The paint on it withdraws, and where the woman's fingers touch porcelain, a stain remains, as if ink.

In shaky handwriting, the woman writes.

I remember what the Sorcerer-King's favored doctor did. Good doctor Ytan. I remember what he did to me as a child. He did it to other children. He marked us all, like cataloging a supply. He would do things to us--and even when he threw us out, we were his property. We were his possessions. You were, too--there's no way you look like that unless you went through what we did.

Well, I ran away. I came here and found freedom in pushing it all away. But when he marked us, he put some of his power into us. So he's looking for everyone and everything he ever marked. He wants us all for some hideous sorcerous working. I don't know why. But I know he knows I'm here.

He knows you're here too.

The bridge.

It found it.

Almost.

"Where do I go?" Curio asks, and there is weight to this question.

Orochi, in particular, feels it.

He knows. He knows very well. He knows perfectly what will happen once the bridge is crossed.

Curio extends its hand.

She will write the final two words on it.

And then, the passage will open.

Blink breathes heavily, but scribbles two more words.

The Underground.

And then, she passes out.

Curio looks for a long, long time at the characters scrawled at its hand.

It makes sense, doesn't it?

It is where all the filth goes.

Where all the insects come from.

"Do your work" it tells Orochi. "I need to think."

He nods and makes way, only contemplating after the door swings shut that this was the first time she didn't ask, she didn't request it of him or simply wandered off.

She just ordered it done.

It returns some time later; no longer. Other than the single character on its palm, its shell is clean. Plain white, so pure it almost shines silver.

It comes to Orochi, and there is something new in the way it moves- but if it could speak of it, and if he could name it, nothing of what was to come would be necessary.

"Orochi" it says.

"Ah, Curio. What is it you need?" He asks as he cleans bloody tools in a basin of cold water, Blink is sleeping now. The gore on her jaw cleaned away, the blisters on the soft tissue smeared in a honey-sweet salve. What remains of her old tongue, the root and base-muscle sits on a tray beside the gurney. A pair of his armored legionaries wait, flanking the door to his office.

The Ysy woman sleeping soundly, all the pain only a bad memory, an awful dream, vivid and then gone just as fast.

"I can almost hear her voice now, and I can almost remember her face," it says. "The bridge. You were right. I feel like- I feel like I am in your debt."

The words rattle like chains.

"Everything is falling in order. Everything is about to make sense. So you have to know: you helped me."

It so strange for Curio to admit it, to admit the chains we wear, not just out of necessity, but also because we are always already together. It doesn't want to, not anymore it did before. But it is also honest: it all falls together. And it knows that soon, there will be no more moments like that. Because soon whatever is inside of it will break free of its shell, and this may be the end of Curio.

His hands still in their rote motions, actions done a thousand times and carried out through nearly muscle memory alone. And what does he see in that moment when he looks at her? What is that flicker of emotion: awe or dread? Hushed revulsion or quiet admiration? Is it of her or for her? It's impossible to tell, it's there a moment and gone a moment later, hidden behind a perfect smile. A gentle, kind, professional mask, nailed so closely to his face that blood all but wells up around the bone-deep points.

"It is nothing Curio."

"What are friends for, if not this?"

"We were never friends" Curio states, and if you try hard enough, you can hear an honest, sad edge to that. "We were just accidents. I happened to you, and you never knew me, no more than I knew you. And as much as I can speak of myself" because I am not sure what this myself even is is the unspoken footnote "I regret it. But- tell me. If. If I return" if I return as that which I am, and not something completely else, not someone I chose to forget, because sometimes you have to cut the diseased limb away "will you..."

And then, it - she - turns away and leaves. Because it does not want chains. She needs chains. But it is all too difficult for it. She is not here.

So Curio leaves the clinic, and dives into Champoor. The bridge calls.

\---

Bian has a good day of business dealings. Fawaz ibn Suhr is a canny trader in the most mercantile city of this Direction. He knows how to make a killing and he does. He sees a deal, he takes it. He imagines an opportunity, and he creates it.

He gets exactly what he wants where he wants it, leaving just the trail he desires. As he concludes a business dealing he receives a message written in the looping script common to vernacular Pras.

It speaks of great interest, and much money. It lists an address in the Sprawl, and says to come tonight.

Fawaz ibn Suhr does not show to that meeting. What nonsense! He is a busy man.

But a black cat with blue-green claws does slink its way to the street, sitting on the other side of the road as it takes in the sights. Its green eyes don't blink as it examines the location - and it listens for even more.

This section of the city is in its far northwest corner, just at the slopes of the immense, hard to traverse foothills that ring Champoor's natural valley. Here, the Sprawl is low buildings, lean-tos, and abandoned concrete structures filled with weeds, wildlife, and worse. Bian saw many an uncanny, serpentine visage on her way here - and a curious line of people headed into warehouses.

But for now she puts it out of her mind. She hunches on her claws in the lee of an old indoor marketplace, cement cracked under her paws. 

The ground ripples, and up pops a tiny man with a bony face - literally. Flesh only covers half of his face, the right half, and his skinless eye socket is empty. He's wearing brightly colored robes and a jaunty hat with a feather in it.

The cat mews curiously.

"Hello!?" he calls, a little too loud for good sense. His voice is grating. "Hello!?!? Oh, this is just great. I'm getting stood up... They said to look for a fat man, and all I see's this lousy cat!"

The cat glows, rising up into a pillar of white light that solidifies into... not who he was meant to meet. Savage-looking, long-fanged, snake-scaled; a beastwoman, though her build might be mistaken for a man. Her red scales are engraved with peculiar iconography, perhaps with some occult meaning.

"I am Sisesh," the snake-woman says, head bowed. "My master Fawaz ibn Suhr sent me to meet with thisssss... most strange encounter."

The man recoils, leaping backward. "Jeez, don't do that! Augh! OK. OK. Fine. I can... work with this." He brushes dirt off his shoulders and slinks forward. "Yello, I'm, uh..." He takes a moment, considering what name to give. Obviously it's not real.

He squints at the wall behind Bian and sees a half-decomposed femur. Then he smiles. "I am... Bonemeal. Liminal sworn in service of a big scary sorcerer man from the south. Hi. Nice to meet you."

"I greet you courteously, and in my master's name I bring his greetings too for this mossssssst peculiar manner of introduction," the snake-woman says, corners of her lipless mouth turning up.

Bonemeal cackles, the sound like bones hitting each other. "Cool. Cool. So..."

"Heard you like things that go boom. Well, so do we. But we like people that know the value of discretion and--" He checks his gaunt hand. There's writing on it. "...'financial opportunism'? I say that right? I did, didn't I. Anywho," he says, "we're interested in working with your master. See, once upon a time, someone did us real bad. But I gotta back up first.

"Have you ever heard of House Cathak?"

"They were... once part of the Realm-That-Was," Sisesh says. "I was born not too far from one of their satrapies."

"Yep. Well, see here..." the man turns around. On his back is an imperial mon.

"I'm a servant of a member of House Cathak. We work with Anathema like myself now, in the right circumstances. And I have reason to believe that there's some sumbitch here that my master wants to find and have a talking to."

"The last my master told me," the snake-woman said, "there were still violent clashes between the claimants of the Throne-in-Exile. My master would not look too kindly on getting involved in their games, I fear - though will trade if the price is right," she hastens to assure this half-dead man.

"There are! But a core's coalesced around House Cathak, in the East. See, we've got it together--we've got satraps back under control, several Houses with us, and we're just finishing up with what remains of the former Lookshyan Empire. But enough of that."

Bonemeal smiles his crooked smile, and walks up to Bian. He tosses her a bag of dense jade - it's the good stuff.

"Couple thousand more where that came from if you help us find this man."

The snake woman smiles - and my, is it genuine. "I will convey your request to my master. He will be... very pleased at such generosity." She hefts the bag, feels its weight, takes out one of the coins and checks its seal. It's old. From before the Fall of the Realm - the coins are unadulterated. "How might my master contact you?"

"Just come here in two nights' time. There'll be further instructions then."

"Oh, no, no." She bows her head. "Good sir, I am a little... obvious in my true form, and cannot talk as a cat. My master has other servants who would be better suited than I - and some of them are even from the Realm-that-Was and may be more suited to talk to your own masssssssters. Though I would not presume to speak for him, he may instead wish to arrange a meeting with one of them instead."

"Huh. Well if you say so." Bonemeal turns around and heads back to his hole.

"By the way. Man's name is Cathak Saran. Real old type."

And then he's gone.

Half an hour later, Bian is in an expensive cafe in a fine district, wearing her own form. She lights up her cigarillo, inhales, and exhales a cloud of bluish smoke while the serving girl pours her tea out.

"Prasad-style," she says, and nods as the shot of spirits is added.

Then she sits back in the sun, sipping her tea.

Interesting. Very interesting.

Time to get her people on looking into this. And seeing just how much jade she can get out of these wasted remnants of a dead empire. A dead empire that has a few deluded remnants who don't realise that they're the living dead.

\---

The Underground.

Curio spends some time just wandering about. The streets can't do anything to it; no one can. It needs time to think. Or, more precisely, to quiet all the thoughts. And then, finally, when it decides it had enough, it heads to the one place denied to it: to Big Man's sanctuary, from which it was banished. But it is smart enough not to enter, just wait at the threshold, like a penitent. See if this helps.

"Filthy thing. What do you want."

The voice comes after some time - maybe minutes, maybe hours. It's dark out now, and Curio can't tell where the voice is coming from. But it's Big Man's thousand part insect drone. It will never forget that sound for as long as it lives.

"As filth draws filth, so kin calls kin" Curio replies, and its voice is the skittering legion of Champoor's insect-swarm. "I come to bargain."

"Bargain? What do you have for me." The voices hiss; the windows shake. "You, filthy thing. You, defiler of my home. What could you possibly offer me?"

"The end of me" Curio responds; moon hides its face.

The buzzing ceases briefly. The moon paints the doorstep in oil swirls of milklight.

A heartbeat between breezes, and Big Man stands in his door.

"Talk."

"There is a place that is known as the Underground, and in this place, there is someone who does not belong; an agent of something distant and cruel. I must find it; he will be the end of me."

"The Underground..." Big Man sounds wistful. "Yes... Very well. I will tell you."

He steps lightly from his tea house, into the street. From his stoop he gestures to the darkly glittering bay. "It's called the Underground. But this is misleading in some way. Our sewers drain to it. The bay provides it a roof."

He eyes Curio carefully. "You remember the dead of the Long Night. But, tell me. Are you familiar with the weird things? The shifting of the Wyld?"

"I know nothing; I am just an empty shell" Curio says, and it is, after a fashion, the truth.

"Well. Know something, then, filthy thing. The Wyld is change. It is chaos. The Underground was a shadowland, a place of near-death. But then Wyld flooded it, and it became something... other." He frowns in distaste. "Not quite a shadowland. Not quite a bubble of wyld. It became both. Then, it became neither."

"Below the bay, it stretches a very long way. Out, and down. How far, I dare not say; such concepts as distance perhaps have no meaning to it. Champoor is young compared to it, and was founded in large part because sorcerers could tap into its power here."

He talks about it like he was there.

"I see" the empty shell says. "From sorcery the filth crawls, into sorcery it must return. Show me the way, and I make the promise to never return as I am, for what will come out of it will be no longer me."

He points down the street to the bay. "In, then down."

And then Big Man turns away, and explodes into a cloud of bugs, all of which skitter and flap back into the tea house. The door swing shuts behind.

And then Curio nods to itself, and heads out, into the bay, into the depths, into the past.

\---

Fine wine. Expensive surroundings. Crystal-glass windows overlooking the bay. A private box at the Blue Star, the second most expensive restaurant in Champoor - and two moon-chosen heroes there. The snake and the dragonfly sit down for dinner.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," Bian says, fluttering her eyelids at Orochi. "To treat me to something like this? You must be doing well for yourself!"

Orochi is immaculate, as always, the days toil leaving not so much as a scarlet splatter on his sleeves, not so much as a single unsightly shadow under his eyes. Yes, he's so very careful about his appearance. A touch of cosmetics to accentuate feminine-bordering-on-androgynous beauty. Lovely clothes, silver and gold threads on flowing white, his long black hair like a waterfall of ink. 

It suits him. This place suits him. Atop the world, surrounded by fine things, looking down on all the rest.

He smiles and it's all long-ingrained manners and false-modesty flavored by the barest shades of humility, "What is life without a few luxuries?"

"Besides, the past few weeks have been trying for us all. It's prudent, in such circumstances, to take care of ones self when one is able."

This is a place where the two of them are at home. Him; pretty - no gorgeous. Her, fully made up with rolling black curls and a blue dress that's daring without being gauche. The new prince of Champoor, and a famous club singer. The kind of thing the lower classes dream of.

She giggles. "You have been busy, it's true. So have I. A lot of your lieutenants have been showing up at my club. We've been getting through so much rare meat, my chefs are wondering if they even have to cook things." She smiles. "If you have any dishes they'd like, please, tell me. We can add them to the rotation!"

"Ah! I'll be sure to make some inquiries, it's always fascinating what behaviors and shifted preferences emerge as a result of the surgeries. Taste and flavor are just one," it's not...fake. Not exactly. But it is false in a sense.

There's something almost obscene about it really, the two of them here. Acting as if they're just people. Only people.

She claps her hands happily. "Oh, that would be just wonderful!" she beams.

"Jangma sends his regrets but he had business to attend to tonight," he did no such thing and he doesn't, but he hadn't really wanted to come. He would've probably had to wear a shirt and wasn't that a dealbreaker for all involved. But it doesn't really matter, the polite fictions flow easily. "But- ah, I suppose it may be for the best. The two of us haven't really had an occasion to talk, have we? Just us, I mean."

Painted red lips smile. She's always smiling. "Oh, please, I'd just hate to inconvenience that poor man. With his injuries, a little get together of friends would be too much for him. Honestly, I'd feel bad for him on my account if he had to drag himself across town and up all these stairs. I hope he's faring well?"

"Oh, quite well," says Orochi and he's too well trained, well drilled, to let the faint irritation bleed through, the raw aggravation soil the mask, "He's a storm god, floating is trivial enough for him and it's a matter of months before he's fully recovered. It's hardly inconvenienced him at all, really."

"Silver linings, isn't that right?"

"That's just as well then," she agrees. "I suppose he didn't take defeat too poorly."

"Call it a qualified victory, I'm sure he'd say it was well worth his shins."

"But- ah. How are you faring Vo Bian? In this new Champoor we find ourselves in."

She takes a deep breath. Juts out her jaw. This fragile-looking woman, this... this singer, nothing more, takes all the courage in her and balls it up and says, "I think you're feeding the worst bits of Champoor. I think you have all this power and you could be better, you really could - but you don't use it. You don't use it at all. You've been telling Sinla you're a monster, but I think that's just your easy excuse for when you're awful to people. That you're a monster and you don't need to care."

Her eyes wobble. Tears smudge the edge of her immaculate kohl.

"But you should! Please, Orochi, please don't throw away everything good you could do with this city because you can't imagine yourself being better than you are."

And oh isn't it rewarding in it's own way, to see that look of just...blank surprise as Orochi pauses, glass of wine a few inches from his lips. The serpent slowly blinking, eyebrows rising fractionally. As if not-quite-sure that actually happened. That Vo Bian said that, to his face no less.

"I'm fine," she continues. "More than fine. I'm doing very nicely from all the newly rich people who come to my place. But so many people aren't. And I can see the seeds, Orochi. I've seen so many satrapies I travelled Creation, and the seeds of the way things are in satrapies are scattered here. And I don't want that for Champoor. And neither should you. We're Luna's champions, heroes of the moon! Not as base and venal as the champions of the earth and other fallen elements!"

And the serpent...laughs. A little, just a little, not unkindly, not cruelly but he laughs as he takes a sip of rich, red wine and gently sets the glass down. Still chuckling, before even that fades. 

"Ah," Ah, are you that committed an actor, is this the role you've chosen to play.

"But you see," Or is it really that simple.

"I am using it for such ends. It's been but a few days, you'll have to forgive the lack of immediate progress. All the planning in the world can only do so much when one runs into the harsh realities of moving so many bodies to such and such a place at this particular time- logistics. What a quarrelsome thing."

She's not smiling. Her kohl is smudged. "Are you?" Her voice is a whisper. "No, not even that. Do you really believe that? I'm not sure if it would be better if you believed it or didn't. Because if you really believe that, then you're just poisoning Sinla's mind with your nonsense," she sniffs, "your nonsense about monsters and how you are one. But if you don't, it's just another lie. And you lie so much."

She stares directly at him accusingly.

"There's so many falsehoods here already. You and I are brother and sister in the moon. But you've done nothing but push us away since we arrived! You didn't even introduce yourself to me until that night on the docks! The only one of us you seem to have any attachment to is poor, poor Curio - and I don't know whether your attachment there is the man or the surgeon!"

There is bait. There are barbs. Guilt is a cutting edge, to flay away armor and he's long since become accustomed to turning away such things. So the tide of accusations and grief tinged with outrage comes and he gingerly sets the smile aside, adopting a faintly pensive expression in its place. 

"That," he said, "Is unkind of you Vo Bian. I've cared for Curio since the day we met, sheltered her and done my best to help her heal. She, more than any of us, has suffered greatly. Injuries for which there is little that can be done, and I have done all that I could- but you say my interest in her is mere curiosity? How crass."

"How unfair your judgement of me."

"Perhaps it's unfair - but you force away everyone else, so what am I to say except to judge you by your deeds - and the way you act with this city?" She pauses, lips twitching. "And your master."

A tip of the hand, an incline towards the window, "Oh? And you say such things without having even seen what I am attempting, now that I have the resources of the port at my disposal? The work I am doing now is within the Sprawl. Champoor's greatest pit of poverty, where thousands of refugees -war refugees- live. Many victimized freely by the powerful and predatory. Most without access to wholesome food, clean water, or physicians. Without shelter or safety."

"I am building them homes Vo Bian."

"I am providing them with security, with sustenance, purging the Dead from the filthy tunnels that stretch beneath the city."

"But- ah. Is your hostility towards me, or is it towards my master?"

"You put brutal men in charge, and stir up war with Prasad." She glares at him. "I've heard the stories - and I know your gang is plundering the wealth of Prasadi merchants as they 'appropriate' their rights." Her words are silver knives. "When the empire comes... I know what happens when empires, when rich men turn their eyes each other. People get trapped between them.

"You say you're building houses, but what you're doing is laying down stones that will become millstones when the war you court comes here. Millstones that will grind people to dust."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"And anyone with a lick of sense would hate that wicked old man, that self-righteous remnant of a world that should have died long ago. He is older than the hills and mountains, Orochi, and more wicked that whole cities he has seen rise. His goals for the world would make it no different to the Realm, save the throne would be a silver one in place of jade."

Yes, that's the point.

"I work with the tools I have, and tolerate what I must for the sake of the rest. You understand this, don't you? These self-same men: you take their money, do you not? So long as they are well behaved in the Lady's Smile, or keep their crueler natures away from your door?" He spreads his hands, the very picture of an understanding authority, sympathetic but firmly rooted, "So it is with my shahan-ya. Do I agree with everything he has done or intends to do?"

Yes.

"Of course not, and he does not require me to."

"But I owe him much, have learned much from him. And would it not be remiss of me to show him the piety to which he is entitled, a teacher and a patron?"

"I understand your misgivings, truly I do. And I appreciate you speaking them so clearly and openly; few among us ever seem to do so."

"Don't play those games." Her voice is level, yet brittle. "We are not their slaves. This is not something forced on you, some... horrid trap. It is a choice you make. We wax and we wane. Please." A breathe. "Choose otherwise. Do not do this. The world does not need a shining tyrant on a throne of lunargent."

And his voice is nothing but gentle, nothing but earnest, nothing but kind and sincere. "These are not games, Vo Bian. These are the realities by which we live our lives. I am not like Coyote, content to cut myself free of every connection and wander this world alone. Nor am I like that little Wren, who seeks to glut themselves on the adulation of others and cannot exist without it."

"I understand your anger."

"And I understand your disbelief."

"But I chafe under your summary judgement, condemning me for existing within a set of circumstances. Not all of which are within my control."

A pause, painted nails tap-tap-tap to the edge of the glass as he lifts it up, motions at her with it.

"We all do what we can with what we have, all that I ask then is that you do what you have professed: to value me by my actions. Not by my master, not by finer points of philosophical difference, but by what I do for Champoor, my home."

She raises her glass, this fine crystal - but does not tilt it to him. "You might look down on me because I'm just a peasant girl," she says, almost a hint of a chime in her voice. Her accent is thickening, as clear as mud. "You think of me as naive. As laughably ignorant. As a pretty ornament that sings in clubs and can't understand the expediencies of power. But we can't escape our origins. My parents taught me right and wrong - and how expediency is a word used by powerful lords when they want to do wrong things and don't want to live with the guilt. And then they taught me one last thing - what happens to the poor when the mighty fight. No. We can't escape our origins.

"And you, child of the Realm, you embrace a wicked old man as evil as the lords of the Isle so sinful it was no longer blessed and which the gods themselves struck down. And you build the same wicked structures up again. I do judge you by your actions. The towers you build are rooted in foul soil."

And with that said, she lets the glass fall. It spills on the cloth, scarlet seeping into the white cloth. Spreading. Staining.

Vo Bian bites back what she was about to say, and turns on her heel and leaves, soft slippers shushing against the rich carpets.

Orochi watches her go, the pensive look slipping, the affectations fading, utterly ignoring the other diners oh-so-judiciously ignoring what's happening here in turn. And his look isn't displeased. It isn't even offended.

Only...

Thoughtful.


	13. Touching Base

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orochi takes Sinla for a walk.

There's no drizzle, and only a little fog, but the young boy carries a parasol anyway as he walks through Uptown. The sun beats down steady on Champoor's twisting streets, evaporating creek-long puddles to leave behind silty craters. He hides his face from the sun, and from the snake-men-thing soldiers that escort him, behind pale pink fabric embroidered with long-headed dragons.

He hesitates, and then knocks at the door of the clinic with a slight fist; the door is open before his fist touches the wood.

"Good day to you, Orochi," Sinla says, a little tremor in his voice. The soldiers stare blandly at nothing, awaiting the Lunar's orders.

The door opens with a click and the man is there, white hat gently placed on his head, coat draped over his shoulders, the appointment kept, everything just-so and it's all so very...uncanny, in its own way. Orochi doesn't run things out of the clinic anymore, insofar as he ever did. It is an empty box, a half-swept stage with a few props and half-folded colored screens left scattered across its surface. It's here just as backdrop, a kind of conscious framing. The motions of mundanity.

Not even Blink is here anymore.

"Good day to you Sinla," he says politely, "Shall we?"  
The boy smiles tightly. "Yes. Of course." He motions politely with one arm to invite Orochi out. Like he has any real choice in the matter. "Where to?"

A faint smile twitches up the corner of his mouth, a murmur beneath the mask there for a moment and then gone. The snake in white gracefully accepts, closing the door behind him. He locks it but even that's more an afterthought, more perfunctory than anything. A flick of the fingers and the soldiers withdraw, a soft piping hiss of acknowledgement from the saurian, serpentine things.

"I thought," he says, "That you would like to see some of my work."  
"Well. It will get me out, yes?" Sinla relaxes marginally as the soldiers leave. Marginally. "By all means."

By all means.

And they walk. And they talk (or Orochi talks at least). And for while, if only a while, it's all so...almost normal. It all almost fits in the schema of the world, Creation-as-it-should-be. A tutor and his charge perhaps. A visiting cousin and a distant relation. A civil servant and his master's son. They walk along dew-damp gardens and in the shadow of sprawling, half-overgrown estates. Down a winding, warren of streets, Orochi utterly untroubled by the labyrinthine coils of the city. Stopping at a small food stall for a snack (Sinla gets whatever he likes, Orochi takes nothing).

All else aside the Lunar is pleasant enough to listen to. His voice light, low, his accent almost lyrical.

He talks about the preliminary plans for maintaining the currents that purified the harbor. About planned restorations to storm drains and sewage networks. The repurposing of the land taken in the aftermath of Firefly's coup. New gardens. New markets. The roughest designs of a Realm-style university.

He answers questions without hesitation. He renders complex sorcerous concepts down to something almost digestible. He waits for Sinla when the child lags behind.

It's all so...almost-enjoyable, the boy nearly doesn't notice it when they stop at the threshold.

In the shadow of the Sprawl.

But Sinla does notice. He hears the bustle of city life abate as they reach the end of the safe neighborhoods. He sees the buildings changing in style, inferior construction and integrity as they head downhill to where the Sprawl begins. He feels the street beneath his feet and how it's less level, less smooth. And he breathes the difference in the air, like rot, like moisture, like chill. Something undefinably yet undeniably wrong. The sun washes the damp spread of bodies and buildings, but it's an ugly bearing.

By the time they're at the bottom of the hill, there's nothing pleasant about the day anymore.  
"What did you want to show me here?" the boy croaks.

Orochi half turns, brim of his hat between his fore-finger and thumb. A specter in ivory, in black and blue and washed out shades of tan. The shadow of some half-forgotten nightmare, lingering past the point of waking. Just a collection of details, of nonsensical associations. The serpent-physician, the man all-in-white waiting at the edge of all things. The border of what's safe and what isn't.

As Sinla watches a snake slowly coils out from beneath his sleeve, winding around his wrist like a sapphire and sable bracelet.

"Ah, that pained expression! You really do look so serious you know? What is it all the aunties say, if you keep frowning so severely you'll crease your face before you're twenty."

"It's as I said: I thought you might like to see my work."

And oh isn't Orochi in a good mood.

And oh isn't that alone a rosined bow over the nerves.

Sinla's face is pale under the shadow of his parasol as he thinks about what business the snake in white might have in a place like this. His eyes are as terrified as they are thoughtful - Orochi notices they have folds in the corners, just like his do. His ancestors were from the Blessed Isle, after all. "Those men from earlier," he says slowly, shivering. "They are soldiers. They came from here, didn't they? Are you making more soldiers?"

And he doesn't do anything so condescending as to lightly applaud but there's something decidedly approving in the way he lifts his jaw, he tilts his head. Something quietly sincere in the brief flicker of a smile.

"Correct, in essence. But...mnm, my there isn't any way to say 'it's just the beginning' without sounding so very pretentious is there?"

"Ah, it really is one of those things that's best witnessed, I think."

"Witness." The word comes strangely out of his mouth. Sad, scared, overwhelmed, and perhaps a tad bitter? Sinla does a lot of witnessing these days. He presses his eyes shut and mouths a prayer in High Realm to the Immaculate Dragons for strength; Orochi recognizes most of it, but not all. It's different slightly from how it was said in the Blessed Isle.  
He opens his eyes, and nods.

The brim of his hat dips a little (just a little) obscuring his eyes for a moment (just a moment). And then he turns and he beckons, and into the darkness they go. Into the clammy chill, the air that feels like fever-sweat and tastes of pollution. Slum stacked upon slum rising above them, an entire borough of Champoor folded in upon itself, compacted and folded and compacted until it seemed as if the very earth would bow under the weight of it all. Under the weight of trash-choked alleyways and stagnant gutters. Of the ramshackle ad hoc homes nestled within, on top of, around, the shells of larger, older buildings. And as they walk, they talk. And his voice is still so very pleasant.

He talks about how a proper census of the Sprawl has never been taken, has been impossible to take.

He talks about how the vast majority of people here live without regular food, without potable water, without physicians.

He talks about how with the Civil War the population has only swelled, stretching every other problem to the breaking point.

Things Sinla has already known, of course he would know, but it's one thing to know and another to hear it in that tone. To see it on your right hand side as you walk along.

The good doctor's prognosis for that pain in your head, that ache in your gut, the mangle the ship's chain made out of your arm.

It's all of five minutes before they hit the first checkpoint.

Serpentine soldiers, a collection of varied clades, manning a set of new, reinforced barricades at a crossroads. Their odd, half-hissed, piping chatter stilling, falling silent as they draw themselves up to rigid attention as Orochi passes.

High along one wall green roots fork and spread, shifting, boneless and tentacular. A white flower blooming into a nest of petal-fangs.

It's a military operation. It's a workflow. It's tall jade lamps throwing multicolor hues over filthy alleyways and dirt paths filled with soldiers in armor older than most forts, done in old Shogunate style. When they breathe it sounds like hissing under full facemasks intubated with breathing tubes, limbs creaking under plated armor set in mesh weaves. This checkpoint alone costs as much jade as a good month of Prasad's mining ventures produces.

Sinla says nothing, walking slowly under his parasol. He steps exactly in time with Orochi, the footfall of his sandals silent under the man's heavier tread, as far from the snake - and everything around him - as possible without being rude.

Orochi's tone doesn't change, still that half-sly almost-wry lilt. A roll of the wrist, a shift beneath his clothes as a serpent peeks over the collar of his coat. It starts with the clinics, he says. It starts with the food banks and new aquaducts. It starts with empty stomachs and aching hearts and exhausted muscle. Progression is slow but inevitable. It becomes new housing blocs, new infrastructure, new barracks and new surgical centers.

Culminating in something that hasn't been seen since the days of the Shogunate. Something there's no real word for.

A hospital-citadel-factory on a grand scale.

Deeper into the Sprawl. More soldiers. More elementals. Things with snake skulls made of black river stone and cuirasses of dark mud, muscles of corded current, long limbs and longer tails, prowling over the rooftops. Skeletal-thin, calling to each other in voices that sound like river rapids breaking on razored rock. Greenmaws grow thicker now, gardens of thorns and teeth.

A hulking, tentacled monster drifts down a street like some obscene parade float, soldiers following in double-file. Twin to the thing that lurks in Orochi's own shadow.

And at last, at last, they stop. Somewhere in the center. Somewhere in the core.

Orochi's hands resting lightly on a towering door.

"Ah, but I feel as if you don't quite approve," he says to the boy.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something sharp and outraged, flaring brighter than the fear, flaring through the tears. "I asked for you to kill my father because I thought anything would be better than open war. That anything would be better than the rani-satrap killing innocent civilians. I could never have imagined this." He stands with his back straight, and says, "I am Adlakhta Sinla of Clan Ophris, Maharan Dragon Caste of the Empire of Prasad, Prince of the Earth-to-be, and it is my duty to take care of my lessers in this world. This city is my home and its people are my lessers-" He points one trembling finger at a soldier with glazed eyes. "-no matter what you d-do to them. T-t-they are my responsibility. I must do what I can for them, when I can."

"So no, partner." He spits the word. "I c-can't do anything about it. But I do not approve."  
"And so. I but witness."

"Hrm..." he says, the sound ambiguous but...thoughtful, measured and considering, the door swinging open. A black portal, draped in gloom. The man in white framed against the inky false-night. "I see."

"Ah, follow me. You'll be able to take a seat inside. We have been walking for quite awhile you know."  
Sinla closes his parasol and, trembling, walks into the darkness.

Within: cold jade lights and stone corridors. Within: a warren of countless rooms and halls, an army fort folded into an apartment block. Within: troops without masks, without armor, all meticulously sculpted flesh, strung sinew and scale; watching the two of them as they pass. The office they eventually come to isn't his, isn't quite his. It belongs to one of his talon-captains, the woman out temporarily. It's small but functional. A folding cot tucked neatly in a corner. A heavy desk stacked with filed reports, parchment, ink and sand. A map of the Sprawl on the wall, half-complete, the blank space steadily being filled in as more and more streets are charted.

Orochi sits on one side, slats of grey light filtering through the shuttered window behind him. Sinla on the other. A pot of tea half off to the side between them, brought by a beastman servant.

"They disgust you," he says mildly, it's not really a question.

The boy nods hesitantly, parasol across his lap. Dripping beads of water onto the cold floor, fine red robes a splash of color in the stark room. "They... do. I wish I could say otherwise in truth." He's still sour, but the venom of earlier is gone. Spent and done.

"Oh, that's quite alright," Orochi replies, "Disgust is a visceral reaction. It's one we can only govern in ourselves, like fear. Or love."

"And this is rather shocking to your sensibilities. To- well hah, to most people's if we're being honest with each other," Orochi's good mood is a touch more subdued now here in the quiet, here in the hush, less dimmed and more banked low for a moment.

"Miss Bian would say it's monstrous," Sinla observes quietly.

Orochi's eyebrows arch fractionally, a flicker-flash of something in those slitted scarlet eyes, there a moment and gone the next, let slip through his fingers, "I wouldn't disagree but I don't think she means it quite the way I do."

"Ah, but she does say a great many things. Doesn't she?"

"Really, the unfortunate reality of the situation is that the Sprawl is in a deplorable state. Tenepeshu and Jeyen Te were content to use it as both a dumping ground and a larder, much of the predation here was either deemed profitable or not worth the expense to regulate. Firefly used it as a larder in the more literal sense. And even before the events of late, even before the War, the Prasadi rulers never quite cared what happened to the people here."

"To them it was a place for distasteful, disgusting, useless things."

"Human impurity and less than human filth."  
Sinla's eyes narrow fractionally.

Orochi raises his palms in a mollifying gesture.

"That was unkind of me," he says, "I apologize."

"It is...." He stops himself from saying it's okay. "Go on?"

"This is but one set of problems that Champoor faces," he continues, counting off on his fingers, "Dead hide in the sewers, the merchants of the port are finally out from beneath Tenepeshu's claw, there are rogue factions within the Five Fingers and Prasad is stirring, slowly admittedly, but still stirring to action. Jangma and I are looking into sourcing one of the mercenary Legions of the old Realm but that is only a temporary, partial solution. And will last only so long as the customs houses remain cowed, and while they heed us now..."

He spreads his hands, the motion encompassing.

"The people here need safety, shelter, food and water and medicine."

"I need an army."

"And so you... what. Inflict your moon powers on them? You victimize them because you fill their stomachs with bread?" Sinla makes a bitter sound that reminds Orochi of his father. "And so we are likely to go to war anyway. Even after what we've done. What--what I've done."

"Hmm," it's a tip of the head, a slow, lazy blink, a gentle tone and words that could come from a kind mentor if you didn't listen to their content too closely, "You could stand to judge me a little less harshly, but it's hard to fault you for it. Yet by the same token you could stand to judge yourself a little less cruelly."

"You made the best decision you could knowing what you knew and with the tools at your disposal."

"And...you're of the Dragon-caste, and you are not yet grown. It's very likely that one day you will Exalt and come into your own. And you will be faced with the same choices I am now."

"There's only so many ways to solve a starving stomach with phenomenal personal power after all."  
Sinla says nothing, hands resting on the table top. They don't curl into fists, but they twitch. "Is this where you tell me that I'll be just like you, one day?" It's bleak, bitter humor. And Orochi can taste the fear on those words with his forked tongue.

He doesn't answer at first. Not immediately. Not with reassurances or bleak appraisal or...anything, he just considers the question as he could a particularly thorny riddle, an engaging piece of news. Quietly sipping his tea as he mulls it over.

"No," he says, "I honestly don't know if you will be yet or not. You have had a life of luxury and you have suffered greatly by turns."

"In that respect we are not so different."

"But you are fundamentally still you, Adlakhta Sinla of Clan Ophris, Maharan Dragon Caste of the Empire of Prasad, Prince of the Earth-to-be. And I?"

"Ah."

"Hah."

A slow smile, a baring of oh-so-slightly too sharp teeth, "I was not always me."

"If there's one thing that I think it's important that you understand it's that..." a frown, the words slow now, as if he's sounding out something he's only read, never quite spoken aloud, "There is no justice in this world but that which we make. There is no kindness but that which we create and even that, all too often, is only a passing whim."

He doesn't want to listen to Orochi. He doesn't want to hang on his venom-sweet words. But Sinla can't help it. Disgusted, terrified and angry as he may be, he's listening intently.

"I know you think I'm a wicked man," he says, faintly amused, "Yet by the standards of the Immaculate I am actually a quite well behaved Anathema. Every day I do not drag all of Champoor screaming into madness, every day I do not murder and rape and eat the flesh of Champoor's citizens...by their reasoning that is a profound mercy. A great magnanimity and deeply contrary to my nature. If only I was a little more virtuous I would have killed myself when Luna kissed my brow."

"We do what we can with the pasts we are given. We do what we must in the world that we have."

"It is therefore quite alright if you think I am wicked. It is quite alright if you find me detestable, or my very presence -hah- anathema. It is even quite alright if you like me ever so slightly less than you like Vo Bian," his voice light, a gentle teasing, "My heart breaks under the weight, but I shall surely recover."

"So long as you understand that this, all of this, is for the sake of this city and the people who dwell within."

"So long as you understand that this, all of this, is so that Champoor may endure. That I want to see this city do more than survive, I want it to live. And in that respect we are very much the same."  
There is a long silence. Then Sinla sighs wearily.

"I hope you are wrong. But I fear you are right."

"Many people hope that I am wrong, unfortunately I am frequently right."

"Unfortunately so, partner."


	14. Monster, God, Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coyote's back with business.

Tenepeshu's Lair still feels like a dragon's den. Its great halls were once a temple before they were host to gangsters, and now with the death of the dragon that gave it its name, and the erection of statues and paintings in her honor, it feels something like one again.

Jangma's office is big, bright, and so hideously over-decorated as to make even a port huckster cringe. Gold and jade statues, fine paintings, carved chairs...

Coyote finds them quite comfortable to receive guests in. Like, say, the officer's owner.

"Nice place," Coyote says from behind Jangma's desk, his feet up on the table. He's flipping through some of the papers he found in one of the drawers, but only with half an eye. His other is locked on the still form of Jangma, silhouetted against the dim light from the hall. "A bit gaudier than I prefer, but I grew up in an austere household. Tends to leave a mark on young, impressionable minds."

Jangma's wearing bright orange. His face is painted bright red - he's been out having fun, enjoying himself and wearing makeup. It's fitting, for how mad he looks.

"Give me one reason not to sick my boys on you," he hisses through fanged teeth.  
"I can give you two," Coyote replies, his grin growing wider in the face of Jangma's fury. "First, both you and I know they can't really stop me. If I'm nice, I'll just leave and you'll look like an idiot. Or, if I'm feeling cruel, I'll just break them into little pieces. End result, you still look like an idiot." 

The grin abruptly fades, and Coyote tosses the papers aside. He lifts his feet off the table and stands up, hands near his belt, and looks at Jangma with eyes suddenly lacking in mirth. They flash oddly in the light, and behind him his shadow twists oddly. One moment it's a man's, and another it's a looming creature with a fanged maw and curving horns. 

A reminder of just a few weeks ago, on a night of death and screams. A night where the darkness was pushed back by the fires of a beast soaring through the night on an arm made of moonsilver, tearing through everything in his path. Unstoppable, unbreakable, and monstrous.

"Second, I'm the only one who's actually going to be square with you about the situation you're in." He waves a hand at the god. "Close the door, and we'll talk."  
The monsoon god stares down the Exalt for a long moment. For a moment, Coyote thinks Jangma is actually going to attack him.

If this were a few weeks ago, he probably would have.

"You got one minute. Now get out of my fucking chair," the gangster hisses as he slams the door shut.  
Coyote backs away, one hand motioning toward the chair. He waits until Jangma settles himself, then sighs and stands just off the center of the room. With the moonsoon god sitting down the difference in their height is more apparent, though Coyote lacks Jangma's mass. But there is something about the flowing clothes Coyote wears, the way he holds himself, that makes him seem larger than he actually is. 

He leans back on his heels, perfectly at ease in this sanctum of power, and says, "Jangma, do you know why I was sent to this city?"  
"Cut the questions, asshole." Jangma sneers. "You're in my house and you're not wanted. Talk."  
"Oh, there it is. The posturing, the preening... You're a young god, aren't you Jangma? Young and full of piss and fire. I know, because I was a young man once." This time his grin lacks even the pretense of good humor. "Allow me to lay all this out for you, then. I was sent here, to this worn down hive of a city, because the Silver Pact wished to negotiate with Tenepeshu."

Coyote steps to the edge of the desk with such uncanny grace that it barely seems he even moved. One moment he stood five paces away, and the next he's just out of arms reach of Jangma.

"Now, I want you to understand the implications of this, because it seems neither you nor Orochi have. Or if he has then he's not bothered to inform you. The Silver Pact wanted to negotiate with your mother. That was the respect her power and influence earned her from us. But you, Jangma?" He shakes his head. "You're not you're mother."

"I'm not my mother. I'm better, even if your shahan-yas haven't learned that yet." Jangma's eyelids flicker closed - no, a set of eyelids flicker closed. They're translucent. Lightning plays behind them. "You'd best watch how you talk to me. Lotta snakes in this city, old dog, and what we bite stops moving."

He bares his fangs.

Coyote snorts. "I'm telling you this as a courtesy, little god, and you should be grateful the only reason I've not put a flamepiece in your mouth and pulled the trigger for what you did is because it wouldn't change anything."

His form shifts, horns growing from his skull as his mouth stretches outward and his teeth grow longer. Loose clothing fills out as bones pop and flesh ripples like water, and within the space of two heartbeats Coyote has grown almost a full head and shoulders taller than before. Now there is no difference between him and his shadow, the true shape of the monster revealed before the god sitting before him.

"What I tell you now is not a threat, Jangma, but merely the truth no one else has deigned to grace you with. You are the lesser partner in this relationship, and the Pact will let you know it," he says in a much deeper voice than before, showing off rows of teeth. "This isn't your city. It's not even Orochi's city, for all that he doesn't seem to understand that just yet. It's the Silver Pact's city to do with as they will, to bicker over and direct in their wars against the Dragonblooded until they're all dead and gone. Because Tenepeshu had enough power to be treated with some deference, and you don't."

Jangma opens his mouth to say something, and Coyote hears the sound of far-off thunder like the sea in a shell. Hatred is writ plain on his face - hatred and hurt. 

His jaw snaps shut with an audible click, and he points to the door with one angrily shaking finger.

It's been a minute.

A canine smile, lips drawn back to reveal every one of Coyote's fangs. He gives Jangma a bow, what little give remaining in his clothes giving off the echo of another life. But there was no respect in the gesture, nothing but sorrow and contempt in Coyote's eyes as he kept his gaze locked with Jangma's. With one smooth motion he opened the door and made his way out of the office, swiftly walking through the lair toward the entrance. 

None barred his way as he left.

\--

"... and right foot, back, forwards, back - left foot, back, forwards, back... four and-"

Coyote hears Sinla before he sees him., in the main dance hall of the Lady's Smile. His dancing shoes (skytitan leather, he notes approvingly) clicking as he steps in time, his humming as he carries a loping pulse, his muttering as he repeats instructions over and over. Coyote steps through beaded curtains to see the young noble spinning on his toes, giggling happily to himself. He's flushed, panting; he's been at this for a while, and staff won't start setting up until mid-afternoon at earliest, so he's got quite a bit of time left.

He doesn't notice Coyote approach.

Coyote doesn't say anything, but instead leans against the wall with his arms crossed. A small smile plays out across his face as he watches Sinla go through the forms of the dance, and for a time he can allow himself to forget painful histories and unpleasant presents. He can push aside terrible necessities and terrible choices, of having to agonize over when to interfere and hold himself back.

No, right now he merely let's the simple joy of a young man learning to dance wash over him. And, perhaps for a time, feels happy.

It's a lovely scene. Sinla dances and dances and dances himself dizzy, and then he dances some more. And when he finally slips and lands on his butt - and it takes a while, because he really is getting quite good - he's sweating and his cotton shirt is soaked through.

That's when he sees Coyote, and his sweet expression curdles into fear.

There is a twitch at the edges of his smile, and a dull ache in his chest at the dread in Sinla's eyes. Many are those who seek to be feared, to hold power over people through fear. Such is just one of many tools the strong hold over the weak, even if they don't intend to. Even if they want nothing more than to just come and go without causing anyone distress.

"You're getting quite good," Coyote says, still holding the smile through sheer force of will. "Better than I was at your age."

Sinla's face cycles through many expressions before locking down onto pleasantly bland neutrality. A pretty smile. under dead eyes. The joy gone, like it didn't even exist.

It's not really Coyote's fault. He knows that. He's seen enough traumatized boys to know that sometimes, they do what they need to in order to survive, long after they need to do it. It's not personal. That's what he tells himself.

"Thank you," Sinla says, taking smoothly to his feet. His legs are shaking a little - he really did dance his heart out. "How may I help you, Coyote?"

"Funny you should say that, because I was just about to ask you the same question."

The smile hitches and shudders like a blind being tugged. "I--I'm sorry?" And wouldn't you know, he really does sound sorry.

The smile turns into a scowl, and Coyote rubs a hand through his hair beneath the kufiyah. For a moment he struggles with the words, trying to shape them into something that will put the boy at ease. Then he gives up on that and shakes his head, slowly walking over to Sinla and kneeling so they can look each other in the eye.

"You might have noticed I've been gone for a bit. I've not been too far, just observing the city while the dust settles." He tries again for a smile, an awkward and ungainly thing. "And I've been keeping an eye on you."

"Why me?"

It's a simple way to ask everything.

"Because you're a child who has been wrapped up in matters no children should have to, and yet far too many find themselves in anyway," he says. "Because you understood what you asked of us, and comprehend the nature of power. Because you've been shown terrible things by Orochi, and beautiful things by Bian, and for all that you have suffered I am willing to give you something I fear you've had precious little of in your life. Choice."

The smile chips, then peels apart. Sinla looks up in open wonder, fear, and confusion. He dabs at his wet eyes with a reddened arm. "G--go on?"

"Ask of me what you want, and I will do my best to make it happen. Leave Champoor and set up a new life away from its troubles? I can provide that. Learn how to protect yourself so no one can ever hurt you again? I can do that too. I'm even willing to risk myself with the agents of the Realm-that-Was should you wish it. You have the blood of the Dragons in you, and they would take you in. Simply speak your desire, and I will make it yours."

"What I want?" The boy says the words like they're unfamiliar to him. Perhaps they are. He looks around the empty dance hall.

But it's not empty. It's full: with sound. The bustle of crowds outside. The sounds of life, of a city breathing, of its peoples living. Babies crying and grandmothers screaming and youths whooping. Birds and rats and mules. Breeze and drizzle.

Sinla balls his fists; his breath is erratic. "I want... to protect the people of this city. I want the power to do that, Coyote. Even if it makes me a monster, like Orochi, I want to know that I am doing all that I can. That what I do matters, for once."

Tears track down his cheeks. "But I have no such power. Not yet; perhaps not ever. 

"But you do."

"You know what it is you ask of me," Coyote says, lowering his head. "You understand what that means, and how complicated such simple words can become. It is something that has tormented me ever since I took my Second Breath. To see, with such terrible clarity, how every action can spiral beyond our control into something terrible no matter our intentions. How the strong do as they will, and the weak suffer their indulgence."

He raises his head, and his eyes are bottomless depths of sorrow. Lines etched through decades of pain, a whole lifetime of weakness and another of overwhelming ability. Questions and fears unending have left their mark on him, unrequited desires tearing chunks from his spirit and leaving scars upon his flesh. 

How strange it is that someone so mighty could be so tormented. How awful it is that even the Exalted are plagued with doubt.

"No one has is entitled to power over another's life, and the strong so often lack the judgement to use their strength wisely. But you are not yet mighty, though one day you may be. What right have I to deny you after giving the gift of choice?" 

A tired sigh, and once more a smile. It is small, but true, making the fierceness of his face soften to something almost fully human.

"If this is what you wish, Sinla, then I shall see it done."

"Good. Do so."

Sinla's hand is soft against Coyote's. Half its size, with none of the calloused roughness. But he gives it a squeeze, and smiles bravely up at the old man.

"I think... it will be okay, if we all just try our hardest. Like you."

"Imagine the world we could have if we all bothered to care."

"Yes," Coyote whispers, giving Sinla's hand a gentle squeeze as he gazes back into memory. So long ago now, covered in dust, and yet he can see the shape of it again. Of a young man who cared so much, and was broken for it. But did that mean the dream he had was any less beautiful? "What a world that would be."


	15. Over/Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth main session.

Coyote is a hard man to find. But the past has a way of catching up with everyone. And if they're lucky - or unlucky - they see it coming, first. It's a drizzly day in Champoor - Orochi's fond of the rainy weather, still - when something catches his eye as he rappels between high soapstone parapets and buttresses.

Red and gold colors. Old Imperial robes of a familiar make.

Well, shit.

He hadn't expected this, but in retrospect that might have been more than a little foolish. It wasn't as if the Dynasts were ones to simply let opportunities slip by. Unless they were here for him... By why would they? The remnants of a life long since past, by the preference of all involved. Or, at least, he had assumed so. There had been plenty back where he had grown up who were happy to see him gone.

But perhaps that is just wishful thinking on his part. There is too much pain lingering upon his memories, and he settles down on a ledge to observe the figure walking the street. The ache in his chest flexes, nostalgia and grief in equal measure, as eyes far sharper than any mortal's take in the person below.

Coyote can't make out the figures' face through its hood. His hands are gnarled, when they peek out from his robe pockets - he moves with a smooth walk, a dancer's poise.

He rounds the corner into an alley, where waits a dusky-skinned woman, and disappears into the shadows. Headed in the direction of the Sprawl.

A flash of moonsilver, and Coyote is following from above. If any were to look up they might see the flutter of his bisht in the wind, or the shine of his arm as it extends and retracts. But somehow Coyote manages to avoid being seen, with only the barest glimpse of his passage in the sky marking he had ever been there at all.

Coyote follows them through Uptown from rooftop to rooftop. He can't hear what they're talking about, and it's hard to keep following them.

The woman looks Southern like him, with aquamarine triangle earings, and diamonds studs in her forehead. Her almond-shaped eyes are kohl-heavy, crinkled by laugh lines, and her hair reaches down in dark coils. She moves easily through the slick alleyways. Too easily. He doesn't think she's mortal - but she doesn't dress in any fashions of the Realm-that-Was, and he can't spy moonsilver ink or the touches of an animal.

The man, though... He's Realm. He looks familiar to Coyote, though he's not sure how just yet. Half of his face droops like wet clay, yet to be molded - he seems to have been quite handsome, once upon a time.

Eventually, as they reach the beginning of the Sprawl and Coyote's reduced to shadowing them on the streets, they reach a sewer grate which the woman lifts up with one hand, and disappear into it.

Coyote scowls at the grate, weighing his options. It's much more difficult to follow without being seen within the cramped confines of the sewer. On the other hand, knowing exactly what the Dynasts are doing in Champoor would be a great boon toward potentially preventing future tragedy...

But he is Anathema, and if they see him then they will attack. He could almost certainly get away, but in such unfavorable conditions he would probably have to use lethal force. That isn't something he's ready for. Not yet, anyway. Not if he can avoid it.

There are still bonds that connect him to that old life, no matter how he wishes otherwise.

So he turns around and walks away. There will be time yet to look into what their desires are for Champoor. For now... For now, Coyote feels old. It's time for a drink.

  
\---

  
The stiff sea-breeze whips salt against Orochi's face as he opens the door to the lighthouse exterior. There's minimal railing, and little room to stand. He can see everything from up here - Champoor, all its neighborhoods, the surrounding hills. The glittering of the Dreaming Sea. He can see everything he has. Everything and more.

That's why Jangma likes it here, too. When he's in a bad way.

Orochi feels...he doesn't know how he feels. He doesn't know if he has a word for it. He feels as if his skin is being steadily scraped away, exposing some essential essence of himself. Something sizzling, spitting, hungry and unrestrained; now bereft of cover, concealment, protection and containment. Like he's fraying alive (but he's never felt more alive has he?). There are so many demands on his time now. So many demands on himself. Every moment of sleep feels stolen somehow. Every quiet hour a luxurious indulgence. And yet- and yet and yet and yet:

He always has time for Jangma, doesn't he?

He always makes time for the other man, for the god, doesn't he?

Orochi stands on the balcony, eyes half closed and face lifted to the wind, and wonders if that's a sign of strength or just idiot frailty. Or maybe just something he doesn't quite have the word for yet.

"The Coyote came to tell me something." Jangma stares off into the distance. His voice is flat, quiet in the wind. There's no cock or swagger to it at all. "He came to tell me that this city belongs to the Silver Pact, not us, and that those shahan-yas won't respect me."

"Tell me he's wrong. Completely wrong."

And he starts a little, and he...almost smiles. This worn, nearly wan smile. Some shred of awful vulnerability that he would smash and butcher with bloody hands before he ever, ever let anyone but Jangma see it. Ah, so that's what this is, he thinks but doesn't say. Ah, do you trust me so little, he thinks but doesn't say.

"He's wrong, an idiot, and if I thought it'd kill him I'd throw him off a bridge," Orochi says.

Black nails, hands backed with delicate scales like so many finely sewn sequins resting on the railing. The white-clad snake a few feet away from the storm-god, comfortably close and far enough that the other man can breathe (and oh he understands that, that feeling of slow-suffocation, he understands it perfectly, but that's the joke isn't it? For all that everyone thinks he's heartless he understands the hearts of everyone else so very well).

Jangma leans against the railing. He's not looking at Orochi - he's not even looking at the bay. He's looking out further. Somewhere out of sight. "Ma-Ha Suchi's the guy, right? He's our in with the Pact?"

"Insofar as the Pact exists in its current state and with regards to what will emerge from the rotten, half-tattered sack of its self: yes, yes he is," Orochi replies.

"It's 'current state'. See. That's the thing. That's my problem." Jangma turns to face Orochi. Anger and hurt and clear on his face - but not at Orochi. No. "You trust Ma-Ha Suchi, not just to be good, but to be better than everyone else. I hear you talk about him like his dick is in your mouth - and I'm sure he's swell. But he's just one guy. And from what I can tell, he's not a real popular one, depending who you ask."

He starts pacing back and forth, turning quickly in the narrow space. "So what, are people just going to let him get that win? Get us? I don't doubt he's good! But--I just keep thinking, Orochi. I keep thinking about how this guy's not the whole Pact. And the Pact spent centuries failing to get what they want. And you're telling me they're gonna hold hands and sing peace songs now when somebody like him gets a win?"

"I don't buy it." Jangma shakes his head. "I don't doubt you. I don't doubt your guy. What I doubt, is that this shithole of a world, filled with shit people is going to let us get away with it. I doubt that it's going to be that simple."

"I doubt that some people are going to just let us hand Ma-Ha Suchi a win."

"And that means they want us to lose."

There's a sigh, barely audible, half-snatched away by the wind. The man in white turns, the railing resting against the small of his spine , the tails of his coat tugged and plucked by the wind. A lethal drop at his back and utterly cavalier about it but, then again, he has wings doesn't he? It's hard to be afraid of the fall when you've learned how to fly.

"You're right," he says mildly, "You're entirely right. Ma-Ha-Suchi doesn't lack for enemies, personally or on principle. Some, I suspect, are in my Circle hah."

"...."

"I'm not going to let them win Jangma," he says softly, and there's none of that cryptic half-scholarly, half-sly quirk to his words, that crooked up corner of the mouth just there at the edge of hearing even if you can't see it on his face. There's just something like tenderness. Something like affection. "And they won't. The people here who care so much for the Pact, the people out there who would burn it all just to deny my shahan-ya what he needs, Coyote, Vo Bian-"

"The Pact is dead Jangma. It died when the Imperial City died. When their great enemy was murdered and all these ancient monsters had something like victory just...fall into their laps. All bonds of necessity so elegantly severed in one fell stroke. The forever-war finally won."

"They've had a thousand years to hate each other. A thousand years to build up spite and petty slights and resentment. Ma-Ha-Suchi and Rakshi nearly killed each other even when the Realm lived so it's-"

A gentle roll of the hand, a tipped wrist and splayed fingers, "The Pact is dead and it doesn't know it yet. The mortally wounded man who walks down the street before collapsing to the stone. The Pact is dead and when the last threads break it won't be a hundred against Ma-Ha-Suchi, it will be a war of all against all. A Lunar Civil War. Which is..."

"Terrifying. Yes."

"But we have the numbers. We have the network. And we have been preparing."

"I have been preparing."

"Yeah. I know." Jangma sighs. Orochi gets a smile out of him, if not much else. "But riddle me this moonboy.

Do you have any idea what they've been preparing?"

Black nails drumming on metal. Long black hair swaying in the wind. "Hrm, there's Rakshi and her Thousand Fangs Army to the East, Leviathan in the West, the Caul. The Nameless Lair North of us," and he says it with all the gentle love a man says the word "home". "Armed camps and a half-dozen mostly independent actors between. But if they were going to commit assets to Champoor they'd have to do it in the framework of the negotiations with Tenepeshu."

His voice trails off and it's his turn to stare at something a million miles away, up above in the leaden sky.

"Curio serves no authority but herself. Wren is exactly as useless as they seem."

"Coyote and Vo Bian concern me. He is young for a Lunar but an old man at heart, dedicated to a relic, and a grand hypocrite in the way many old men are. He'd kill us if he thought we were jeopardizing the Pact and he'd do it without the slightest shred of irony or self-awareness."

"She-"

She...she what? She what? Laughter in the Lady's Smile. Hurt fury at dinner. Something beneath the skin, something lingering there, waiting (or is it just a reflection on the water, a silver mirage out at sea).

Orochi is silent for long, long seconds.

"...I don't know," says the serpent, says the physician, says the sorcerer. Ma-Ha-Suchi's so-promising disciple and the man who knows nearly everything there is in this city. Who's wrapped his coils around the levers and wound snakes through the great machine.

Jangma narrows his eyes. "You," he says at length, "don't know. You have a fellow Lunar in this city... and you don't know what makes her tick?"

"No," he says quietly, "I don't."

"And that's unacceptable."

His lover stands up straight, puts an arm around Orochi. He whispers in the snake's ear, "So what are you gonna do about it?"

  
\---

  
Things are changing in the Lady's Smile. There's new money here. The frontage has been cleaned, there's buildings to the side which it's colonising - subsuming into its style - and more than that, there's something about this street. Hell, there's something about these whole docks. They're thronging, crammed to the brim with many faces from trade and the ships. And while you might not recognise the faces, you can smell - and taste - the profit that's going through them.

Bian is on stage when Coyote arrives, and her people bring him drinks - "On the house" a handsome man with tattoos up and down his arms murmurs - while she sings . The lights are low, and in the gloom in here it's like it's already nightfall, the light being reflected in from outside by shrouded mirrors that take the yellow out of the sunlight.

"... and what remains... is you," she croons, eyes a mystery.

But her set ends, and a male quartet takes over. Coyote is invited backstage, into her dressing room, where she's got her feet up on her makeup table and is drinking a cup of hot chocolate that smells strongly of cinnamon.

"So you're back in town?" Bian asks, eyes wide. "Where have you been? I was half afraid Orochi had you murdered and dumped in a pit somewhere." She giggles. "That was a joke. It's really only around a fifth worried."

"I never left," Coyote says. "I've just been lurking around and running some errands. I've good eyes and good ears, after all, so I'll usually spot people before they spot me."

"Well," she huffs her mussed hair out of the way, "I couldn't find you." She purses her lips. "I think we're friends, aren't we?" she asks, gesturing at him to sit in the overstuffed armchair in the corner.

"Probably as much as people like us can be," he replies before taking a sip of his drink, settling down into the offered chair. "I don't wish you ill, at the very least. Hell, I don't even wish Orochi ill, for all that he seems to think I've become some great enemy of his."

"That would be because he's a spoiled brat! A man who would rebuild that awful, awful Realm with a Argent Emperor, that monstrous old man Ma Ha Suchi in charge." The candlelight plays over her features as she violently gestures, nearly spilling her hot chocolate over herself. She sounds peeved - any fool could tell that. And more than that, freshly peeved. "You know what annoys me about him? What really, really, really annoys me about him, I mean, because there's a lot about that flipping sugar-for-brains patronising bar stool that... argh!" She takes a deep breath. "It's the way he talks to you like you're a child! Just because you don't believe in his 'oh, look at me, I'm being so serious and so dour, I don't want to cut people up and stick snakes in their eyeballs, oh no, it's just what adults do'. Argh! Such lies! He's clearly getting off on it or something!"

Coyote blinks, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling in obvious mirth as he allows himself a small smile. "Well damn, Bian. Why don't you tell me how you really feel about him."

She pats her flushed cheeks, eyes flashing. "Oh, I don't believe in doing that. It'd be rude to show someone something like that." She swallows. "And another things! He always gets people talking about him! Even now! I don't want to be talking about him, I want to be telling you something, but he's just that awful! He's... argh! It's probably some stupid magic he's cast on himself, just to be the most annoying and patronising and smug and... and patronising man ever!"

"Well, let's talk about something else then, seeing as you've been so kind to keep giving me free drinks," Coyote says, leaning back into his chair. "Sinla's dancing skills have come along nicely. You're a good teacher, and I should know. I've had more than a few."

She spins on her chair, head tilted back, wide eyes on him. "Coyote," she says, seriously - and only slightly ruined by her motion on the chair, "you need to know - people are after you. There's a woman who works for me - a snake beastwoman, called Sisesh. Well, she works for someone who's a friend of mine, but who's counting? Not me!" Another revolution. "Does the name 'Cathak Saran' mean anything to you?"

Coyote goes completely still. On its face that is not so strange, for Coyote often spends long periods of time simply looming wherever he's decided to place himself. But right now, in this moment, he does not even breathe. This goes on for over a minute, and Bian worries that perhaps something might be wrong with him. But then Coyote lets out a sigh, deflating into his chair.

It is obvious to all of them Coyote took his Second Breath late in life, but is full of such vim and vigor that it's easy to forget. Now, though... Now Coyote seems every one of his years. Old and tired, worn down from too much time spent with too much pain. He holds the liquor, chilled in its glass, to his head and lets it sink into his skull for a time. He revels in that coolness, languishes in it as if it might block away the harsh world outside.

"So they're here for me, then," he whispers, more to himself than to Bian. "I had considered that, but I thought... No, it doesn't matter what I thought. They're here for me."

Bian stops her spinning, and rises. She sashays over to him, bare feet silent against the soft carpet, and wraps her arms comfortingly around his shoulders. "There, there," she murmurs. She smells of lotus of the valley and cherries. "You can talk to me. You can trust me. Who's after you, Coyote? And why?"

Coyote narrows his eyes, glancing at her out of the corner of them. "I respect you, Bian, and I like what you're doing for Sinla. But I'm almost three times your age, so don't go patronizing me. It's unseemly."

"I'm not patronising you," she says softly. "You're upset. Distressed. And the Realm scares me. We're brothers and sisters in Luna, Coyote. They've spent a long time hunting us. They've tried to hunt me. If they're a threat to you, they're a threat to me and they're a threat to all of us." She meets his eyes. "Please. I know how painful it can be to talk about the past sometimes. But secrets won't help if a tattered remnant of the Realm-that-Was is coming for anyone who's chosen by Luna."

He lets out another breath, shrugging off her hands. She steps away and waits for a time while Coyote mulls over what she's told him. He stares down into his drink, as if that amber liquid might hold answers, and strokes his ragged beard. Finally, after it seems he might just stand up and leave, he puts the glass to his lips and drains all of it in one go.

"Cathak Saran," he says, voice soft. "Was a young man who tried to do a good thing and suffered for it. He was exiled, and then when that wasn't enough orders were given to have him killed. And one night, when the moon was full, five assassins came and to the patch of dirt he'd made his home and he was no more." He looks up at her. "Cathak Saran is dead. All that's left is a tired old man who doesn't know what to do with himself."

Bian leans against the wall, her breaths soft. "I... I see." She turns, sliding open a hidden cabinet, and produces a bottle of Prasadi wine. "I think you need this," she offers. "And now... is it just that they don't want to let you go? That they consider you an embarrassment? Or... well." She pauses. "They, House Cathak, they're employing some kind of strange, half-dead man. Maybe they're desperate enough they want your help. At least until they turn on you, like the serpent that is the Realm always will."

"The Immaculate Faith has taken a beating out of sheer necessity, and House Cathak has always been pragmatic," Coyote says, taking the wine and pouring himself a glass. It's almost criminal how the fine vintage is being mixed with the remains of the liquor, but Coyote doesn't seem to care as he sips at it. "So maybe it's the truth? Damned if I have any clue what to do with it, though."

"I wouldn't presume to speak for you," Bian says softly, "but at least as I see it, when a man's family exiles him and then orders his death, they've given up their claim to him. They'll probably try to play on you, work on your guilt for something that wasn't your fault." She spreads her hands. "But if you really do want to talk to them... I can probably arrange such a thing. But..." she bites back her words, "maybe I shouldn't have said that. It's too much to weigh on you." She meets his eyes. "I like you, old man. You're someone I can trust. Someone who understands that it's not good to sacrifice everything for your own pleasure or for the demented goals of a wicked old monster. Pl-please don't rush off and get yourself hurt."

She sighs. "Have you seen any presence of them in the city? I presume you have, after what you said about 'so they're here for me, then'. What did they look like? Who did you see?"

"Older woman, probably Exalted. She's from the South, like I am. Not sure if the man she was with is mortal or not, but there's something wrong with his face. I followed them through Uptown and to the edge of the Sprawl, where they both entered into the sewers."

Bian's brow furrows, considering those descriptions.

Bian has no idea about the man. But the woman...

She sounds like a Solar Exalt Bian once knew. That she met in Chiaroscuro.

  
\---

  
It's a long swim down. And then it's just a long swim - down stops meaning much at all, once Curio starts swimming through earth instead of water. Eventually it surfaces in a cavern with purple walls and white floors. Dead things wander about with devil fangs, and bats that are washes of rotted color flap about.

There are two tunnels before Curio. One goes down. The other goes down. Screams and whispers reach it through the tunnels. They sound like home.

Memories surround Curio.

They phase in and out of view; it cannot tell if they are real, or phantasms summoned by this place, or perhaps its own mind trying to finally burst free of this porcelain prison.

It waits, briefly, after touching down, almost meditative. Knees folded, palms rested. The place calls for it, but it cannot proceed to quickly.

It waits, thus, until the dead things around it cease to notice it.

It doesn't take too long. They're crying. They're crying because they're not dead, and they're not alive, and they're not undead either. They're twisting, huns and pos shifted into something else. A third axis away from life and death. Something equidistant to both. Something neither.

Something neither. Oh, Curio can empathize.

The memories that float around her like shreds of interrupted dreams bring back images, sounds, names... but never the one it carried. It keeps remembering the scene of its mutiliation, and it is still the same. Mute. No feelings. Just watching from the side as evil is inflicted upon a body that did not deserve it.

And the body has a face; but the face Curio can't bring itself to remember.

Its hand runs across its head, trying to feel the features where are there are none: just a smooth plate, featureless and bare.

As the palm draws through it, it leaves behind a black smear: a single character. It says: "bound."

The admission hurts. Or would hurt, if pain was something it could still recognize. But it wants to, doesn't it?

When the time comes, it drags itself up from the floor and lurches forward, down. Into the depths.

And so it goes down. The walls bleed. The air shakes. The floors contract. Curio knows that this is magical working, and if they were more adept at sorcery, this might not be so bad. But it doesn't wish for sorcery.

One of those sounds, a scream dressed in rags, grabs onto Curio. It's a face. Emaciated, pale, stretched like hide over a box drum. Eyes flow from sockets, adoring rivers of flesh.

"You! You did this to me!"

"Did I?" it asks, even if it knows its a lie. The girl that became it couldn't have done anything, and it - it wouldn't consort with wretchedness like this.

"You! YOU!" What was Cakori Buno, and now, might not be anything at all, claws with bloodied, nail-less fingertips at Curio's mask. Smears of blood left behind.

"I can't even hate you. I still need to love you! Please! Please, let me hate you!"

And just like that, it no longer feels even an echo of confusion. This man, it knows; it is surprised it recognizes it, through the changed skin. But no matter.

"I told you to run," it says, pushing the wretchedness away. "I told you not to look back."

But the wretchedness doesn't go away. There is no away, here. There's not even a here. "We're always looking back, even as we move forward. Some of us just try to close our eyes and pretend we can't see. But not me~"

The mouth opens and out comes love so desperate it tastes like death.

The shell is impermeable, and the love doesn't find a chink.

"I suppose you are right," Curio says, taking the wretchedness into its hands and mangling it like one would tear a half-written love-note, never to be delivered.

"I think," it says after a moment, to what remains of Cakori Buno, "that I see a flaw in your doctrine."

"We all want look back, yes," it says, crouching by the remains, its hands drenched black and brown with filth and wretchedness. "But to have a past to come back to, now that is a privilage."

"But you, Cakori Buno," it says, idly pulverizing the remains until there is not a trace, but a stain. "You wouldn't have known about that. You who always had a history, yours or someone else's."

Curio's answer is the squelch of flesh between its hands. Its claws. It's so very, very filthy. Not just its hands. Its face. Its clothes. Curio marinates in filth. Curio has been this whole time. It's everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.

It figures. It makes sense, really.

Those without history having nothing but filfth and misery to look back to. It supposes that it is the reason why it never did: what is there to behold, but this grand old nothing?

Refuse of history, a legacy of debasement, rot and decay. Nothing to come back to, nothing to remember. And yet, it wants to move through it? Why? Ah, this is the question. This is the question that makes it swim deeper into the depths, leaving behind Cakori Buno, who should have listened to its advice.

  
\---

  
And as soon as Coyote spoke, a heeled shoe kicked open the door. "Oh, darling I could go for another fifteen rounds!"

And then through the doorway, there comes a Wren, looking fairly different. For starters, they're definitely wearing more clothes than before; their arms are covered in a pair of oversized sleeves. Their chest has a halter top, and shockingly, they're wearing a pair of gigantic, poofy pants.

This is by far the most dressed they've been...but then in the light it becomes clear that their top and pants are utterly transluscent. One could see the faint silhouette of Wren's ass in the pants, and they're definitely not covering their front underneath. And the back of their pants has a series of buttons, designed to quickly declamp and open up for...easy access.

But most importantly there is an actual bag on their back. A little fanny pack just over their ass and a rope wrapped around their back. A pair of brilliant jade gauntlets are hanging...and conspicuously they're not being worn.

They're filled to the brim with coins. Wren is using these expensive-ass gauntlets as a container for fucking coins and baubles.

"Oh, you," Bian says fondly, almost immediately switching topics. "How many people's shirts did you win off them, hmm? And not just shirts." Her eyes linger over the wealth on display.

"I actually lost count for this week." Wren sighs. "Oh, don't wear the gauntlets. I tried and they burned like hell. I thought I caught a disease."

They pause.

"Not that I can catch diseases anymore. I would know."

They wander past Bian and towards the table. They promptly pull one of the gauntlets off their back and let it slam into the table. "Oh, I also discovered..." They pull out a locket. "Someone's grandma, someone's lover, someone's wife, oh I believe..." they pull out a piece of an urn.

It's still covered in ash. "I just thought it looked pretty."

Bian flinches backwards, eyes widening in shock. "Please, please, can you give that a decent burial?" she begs. "The last thing any of us want is an angry ghost coming for us."

"Oh, oh, so that's what it's for." Wren blinks. "Give me a second."

They take the gauntlet to pour out the urn out back, but not before taking the other gauntlet (which is still full of random baubles) and the fanny pack off and leaving it on the table.

"Wren," Coyote says, his voice soft but firm. "They're going to need the urn, too. I don't want to have to perform a double barrel exorcism in the next few days. Going to be enough trouble as it is."

Wren sighs, halfway through leaving out the back. "Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine."

"Ghosts are a sad, messy business. Best to avoid agitating them."

Despite his words, there's a smile on his lips. He raises a glass to Wren and offers the bottle.

"I see you've been busy."

Wren haphazardly tries to put the urn back together (it was pretty thoroughly smashed by their awkwardness) as they quickly dump it aside and slam the door.

They pat themself down. "Oh, I've been fucking busy. And the other way around, too." They walk right over. "You would never believe who I got those gauntlets from. 'Cause I'm pretty sure those are like super expensive. Hopefully priceless."

They wave their hand. "Stealing jewelry is fun but it got kinda...boring?"

They would rather not say the more accurate thing, which is that being filled wasn't...actually that fulfilling.

"So I decided to take a different kinda precious thing. Like sentimental shit. S'more fun."

"Oh and stealing hearts on the way, too. And cocks. Lots of cocks."

"I'm not going to need to hold the door against some pissed off Dragonblooded this evening, right?"

"Probably not? I mean if it was important they'd probably have noticed it by now." They pause. "To be truthful, I don't remember who I took the gauntlets from. Just that they were important. Oh and the sex was killer. They shot me off like a cannon."

Bian cocks her head at Wren, digging out a - somewhat cheaper - bottle of spirits and offering it to him. "Who? What were they like? Do tell? It sounds like it's hilarious - and I might even," she giggles, "get a raunchy late-night song out of it for the club."

Wren cackles. "Oh, I mean, I don't remember his name, but I definitely his build. And he had a strange need to like wear his bandana while he was fucking me? It was like a fetish thing, I think. Big arms, big hands, big dick, about the build of a gorilla and as much smarts as one too.

"He howled while he was pounding me, garbage dirty talk. But then again I like it rough and he was big, so it all balanced out."

They swoon. "Such is the price of being a size queen~."

"Probably related to Owochi's fuccboi? I don't know, I don't keep track. But he definitely reminded of that hunk there."

"Oh, and then he brought in some more boys and it turned into a party."

"Ah." Bian blinks. "That sounds like one of Orochi's squeeze's underlings. I probably won't sing about that. If it is who I'm thinking of, he doesn't have much of a sense of humour. Violently so."

Wren sighs. "Oh, well. How about the time I encountered a boy last week? Full of himself, probably some politician's thirty-year-old live-at-home son? He tried telling me to keep quiet but I just got louder instead."

"And I still made out like a bandit."

She hums to herself. "Something..." she tries a few notes, "I might... hmm." She grabs a loose slate and a chalk, and starts jotting things down. "Have you ever sung yourself, Wren?" she asks idly.

Wren shrugs. "Well...I have? I mean it's definitely something that tends to turn people off. I've had the occasional guy who really likes it when I sing."

They clear their throat, and let out a few sing-song notes. It's a bit uneven and untrained, but then...

"It's more than what you baragined for,  
But it's a little less than what you paaaaaaaaaaid for..."

They glance at Bian. "Like that?"

"Hmm." She smiles. "You have a lot of raw talent, you know. With some training, I think you could make money on the stage. You're definitely quite an actor." She pauses deliberately. "All eyes on you."

Wren bounces. "Heeee~! Oh, I definitely would love being on stage. Have anything in mind? Like a song? Oh, oh! I think I know what I'd like to sing, it's a little thing I tried writing a long, long time ago-"

"Well, hmm." There's merriment in her eyes. "I wonder - maybe you'd be suited for a little festival down in the docks on the new moon, for one of Luna's aspects. Something a little wild and more to your liking."

One of Bian's girls comes in, delivering the hourly check-up with a sensual whisper. Everything's fine - it's a quiet, regular night tonight.

"Nice gloves, by the way." She waves glittering fingers at the gauntlets as she saunters out.

Wren's eyes light up. "OOOOH that'd be fun! Oh, and then I could probably like-" They're distracted by the compliment.

"Thank you!" They shout back. "Oh, and...shit what was I gonna...oh yeah there'd probably be an orgy in the area. Probably."

Bian taps her fingers together. "Then perhaps I'll talk to some people and see what can be done. Those festivals are too wild for me, but... maybe you might like a monthly gig." She smiles. "After all, Luna has many faces, and between us we should honour them all. Whether it's me, bright and clear," she nods to Coyote, "the old moon of the Season of Air, or you, dark and mysterious and with just a hint of wild light."

Wren giggles. "Oh, I've never been called mysterious before." They stick their tongue out with a wide, childlike smile.

They tap the gauntlets. "Oh, so where should I put these? Kinda tryna figure out where to put my shit now that I actually kinda wanna keep it."

"But you're very mysterious," she says, playfully. "No one shows up here with arms full of treasure - please do bury those poor ashes - and a story for each one. Me and Coyote are all boring and plain and simple compared to you."

Coyote shakes his head with a smile, for a time allowing himself to put away thoughts about painful histories. He picks up the gauntlets and looks them over.

"Very nice quality," he says. "Hmm... Wait, are these artifacts or just masterwork?"

Wren glances to the pile of urn and ash. Or at least where they threw it out back. They glance at Bian. "Fiiine, I'll do it later."

Then they turn to Coyote. "No idea! I just took 'em."

"They looked important."

Bian smiles. "Well, then, Creation's Wren of mystery, maybe we should head out and we can see you play with them. Somewhere that isn't... uh, quite so breakable. Maybe down in one of the empty warehouses a friend of mine owns."

"Ooooh! Yesyesyes!"

"And," she reminds him, "we can see to those ashes at the same time."

"Mneh." They pout.

Bian has already learned well that Wren requires a good three-four reminders of anything.

Coyote turns the gauntlets over in his hands. They're artifacts, of not some little power. They seem to be blessed, twice in turn.

The gauntlets are fashioned into the shape of dragon's heads, the mouths biting out over the fists. They're treebark and oiled chain, decorated with lapis and banded with moonsilver. What they're blessed by, he can't tell, but it's some spirit or power of water - and his own patron.

His eyes narrow. "These are inlaid with moonsilver and blessed by Luna."

"Oh, neat." Wren waves a hand. "Wait if it was blessed by Luna why did it burn when I put it on? The stupid piece of trash. Least it's pretty."

"Not just Luna. There's also another blessing here. I think it's to some great spirit of... water? Yes, water."

Bian spreads her hands. "I'm not an occultist. I'm just a singer. I'm out of my depth here."

"I just like penis and shiny stuff."

"They're definitely artifacts," Coyote says. "And that means someone is going to go looking for them. These are either a family heirloom or something a rich Exalted commissioned."

He sighs and sets them down.

"I've got only a journeyman's knowledge at best of these sorts of things. If we want more answers, we'll need an expert."

"Huh. Can we do it later? I wanna sing." Wren jumps again, clearly excited about Bian's offer.

Fortunately for them, they all know an expert.

Unfortunately for them, it's Orochi.

"I... might know of someone. Someone who isn't sleeping with the man who the man Wren stole them from works for, I mean," Bian says, pursing her lips as she thinks though the names she knows of.

No. Darn. She shakes her head. Not for something as fine as this.

A moment passes, and then another. Finally, Coyote sighs and motions toward the gauntlets. "Let's pay Orochi a visit after Wren's had some time to sing. I'm curious as to who these belong to, since Dragonblooded normally don't use moonsilver and without Essence it's not like some mortal can wield these effectively."

Wren winces at the name. "You can see him. I'd rather not."

"I would also rather not." Bian blushes charmingly. "I last saw him at a dinner that... uh. Didn't go well."

"Oh, you too? He invited me for tea and it was..."

Demoralizing.

Horrible.

They haven't felt full since.

"...unpleasant."

"Uh." Bian pats Wren on the shoulder. "We had a dinner in the most expensive place in town, argued loudly, then I spilled red wine over the white cloths and left."

"My oh my, what wonderful friends we all are," Coyote says wryly. "I'll pay him a visit, then. I figure he's probably got some things he wants to say to me anyway."

"Good." Wren pats Coyote's shoulder. "I am sure he'll appreciate the company, cutie."

Coyote snorts.

"Well, darlings," Bian says, making shooing gestures with her hands. "I need to get changed, and I don't mean in the sense all of us can change. And then I'm going to take a walk and talk to some people about," her eyes drift to Wren, "a certain very enthusiastic dancer who's willing to bring a touch of the magical to worship." Coyote gets a glance. "Keep the bottle, old man. And please, if I can help you, just tell me. If you can tell me where you saw the people you thought were suspicious, I can ask around to see if anyone has seen them."

Wren bounces and nods. "Oh, oh! Is there a costume I should wear? I love costumes!"

She giggles. "It won't be tonight, silly. The new moon isn't for a week. But maybe," she measures him up with her fingers, "maybe tomorrow or in a couple of days time, I can introduce you to my costume team. Me and my staff need quite a few, you know."

":D"

  
\---

  
Curio breaches in a ceramic washbowl sized for giants. For perfect people. It's soaking wet, superficially clean - but it doesn't feel clean.

The room, is clean. It's perfect, marble and granite. Slabs. Tables.

Even the man, lungs outside his body, is perfectly clean as the surgeon hums, hands in his guts.

Curio nods.

The thing that was missing should be coming to it now; that anger it is sure was stolen from it, leaving behind only an empty shell. But it does not come yet. It must be hidden deeper into this place.

It comes closer towards the man, and waits for him to notice it.

The lungs inflate and deflate. Curio sees the man's open brain pan.

"Ah!" The surgeon - no, the doctor, Ytan - turns. He smiles cheerfully, a perfect smile in a perfect body, once and again the height of a tall man. Perfect in that Ys way. "Hello, there. Your appointment isn't scheduled, but we can fit you in, 750. Say hi, 678!" He pokes a bare finger at the brain pan. The open-chested man waves jerkily.

"I see I have been expected," Curio states idly, watching the man on the slab. Why isn't it feeling anything?

"You have. I'm so glad you've returned, 750. I've missed you." That's not a name. That's a number. Does a Curio get a name? Does it get a number?

Ytan washes his hands in the basin, diluted red staining his perfectly muscled hands, and checks his teeth in the mirror. They glint.

Smiling, he approaches Curio.

  
\---

  
Coyote leaves them to their business. He heads to where Orochi's clinic - but he's not there. No, he has offices in the Sprawl now, doesn't he?

He heads that way.

He sees things. Snake-soldiers. Checkpoints. Magical armor. Bread lines. People stepping into warehouses and not coming out.

He doesn't like it.

And the bugs, swarming together, before dying en masse in chitinous blankets?

He likes that even less.

He files such things away for later. There's always something strange going on in Champoor, and he's just one man. He'll get to it eventually.

Coyote doesn't take the circuitous route this time. There's no jumping from rooftops or shimmying open windows, or any such less than strictly legal activities. Instead, he merely walks up the street toward Orochi's office. It's a strange thing, though. The guards don't seem to notice him, or if they do then they do not react. Despite being out in the open Coyote is unbothered and unobstructed, just an old man taking a stroll.

Finally, he stands before Orochi's door. It's nice, made of fine wood and excellent craftsmanship. Coyote raises one gloved hand and knocks three times, then steps back to await an answer.

The man has a love for things from the World Before, before the Civil War, before the Contagion and the Crusade, great calamities now spoken of in the same breath. Is it then any surprise as to where he's made his home, his nest, his den here in the heart of the Sprawl? One of the bleak, brutalist bones of the district. Buried under years and years of addition and expansion and retrofit, now meticulously restored. A Shogunate-era warehouse along the stone-lined canals and churning black rivers of the city, a fortress-heart by any other name. All harsh lines, stark borders and great slabs of concrete and here, here at the center of it everything, here at the heart, it's so much easier to see; for all that the rain seems to fall the more heavily.

The network of urban fortifications and border-bastions. Of clinics and barracks and armies. Sinuous, slithering bodies of some great beast; eight heads and eight tails and all of Champoor enmeshed in its coils.

There is a silence from the other side of the door. A long, long pause. For a moment Coyote almost thinks he might not be in and then the older man hears the muffled, faintly exasperated sigh through the wood.

"Come in."

Coyote opens the door and closes it behind him with one smooth motion, no longer bothering to disguise his natural grace. After all, aren't he and Orochi colleagues? What need have they to hide anything from each other.

The very thought brings a smirk to his lips, though the humor doesn't reach as far as his eyes. Oh, how quickly tensions flare once the weight of necessity has been removed. Unless, of course, everyone has made a number of rather terrible assumptions. But what are the chances of that happening?

The office is grand. The office is vast. Intricate rugs on cold floors and warm wall-hangings in cool, understated shades. A titanic desk of dark wood, edges carved with oiled dragons and snarling beasts, a set of handsome chairs on the near side. A silver-leafed shrine to Mishiko in the corner, the panels now quietly folded. Orochi stands across the room at the open shutters, looking out to the storm, looking out to the bay. A pensive frown on his delicate features. And isn't it funny how even this, even this more honest arrangement is still a facade in its own way? Orochi's deepest den is a small suite of white rooms far below, a place of soft cushions and thick walls where there are no windows and no chairs to receive guests.

"Coyote," he says, polite and mild, "Is there something you need?"

"Well, that's a mighty fine greeting after so much time apart," he says, one eyebrow raised. "I'm hurt, Orochi. One might almost think you don't care for me."

Orochi gives the other man a long and level look before returning to his desk, leaving the windows open to the chill, wet evening air.

"Coyote," he says, his voice even as he rests his fingertips on the polished desk-top, words graced by the very faintest of smiles, "Is there something you want?"

"I think I told you that one a while ago," Coyote replies. "But seeing as I'm lacking in refreshment and you've not offered any like a good host should, I'll get right to the point." He pulls the gauntlets out from the depths of his bisht. "Came across these today and found myself curious. They're inlaid with moonsilver and blessed by Luna, but also by something else. I figure it's a powerful spirit of water, but I've only got passing skills in this area."

"And good guests generally don't have a habit of breaking into their host's homes Coyote," he says as he motions for the other Lunar to lay them across the desk, "But I suppose we're just splitting hairs now."

"Hey now, I walked through the front door all good and proper." He steps up to the desk and lays the gauntlets down across it. "You're not still holding a grudge about before, are you? Wouldn't have figured you the type to linger over something all petty like that."

"I suppose asking you to be less utterly shameless is a lost cause really," he says as he gently tips the gauntlets on their back. Black lacquered nails tracing the wood and metal of the construction, scarlet slitted eyes searching something that Coyote can't quite see. A sleeve twitches, a long sapphire and sable serpent unspooling from the wrist. Forked tongue flickering as it slowly slides over the thing. Joined soon by another, by a third. Blunt snouted snakes, slow and lazy, all but warming themselves on the twin bonfires of Essence like its a pair of sunbaked stones. "But the very least you could do is not take me for an idiot."

"I spoke with Jangma earlier."

"About time," Coyote says, hands resting on his belt. "I've been watching the both of you for a while now, and he was absolutely clueless about his situation. Figured someone needed to be straight with him, seeing as you apparently had no inclination."

"How noble of you."

"I decided to be courteous, seeing as blowing his head off for being a damned idiot wouldn't actually make things better." Coyote frowns, his eyes narrowing. "Unless you weren't just hiding things from him... Do you honestly believe you're going to be allowed to keep this city?"

"I think loudly proclaiming how you could-have-but-were-kind-enough-not-to murder my lover and dear friend is an odd way of asking for a favor," Orochi says, voice dry as a Southern desert, all bleak heat-cracked bone and empty, sucking wells, "Especially when I'm currently in the process of helping you."

"But you're making quite the career of living down to my lowest expectations, so I suppose that makes me the fool more than you."

"Hrm."

He gently lifts an argent finger, tilting his head as he studies the artifact.

Coyote's eyes widen. "Great Dragons, you do think you're going to keep this city. That's..."

The laugh that escapes his lips is soft, barely noticeable save for the subtle shaking of his shoulders. He lowers his head, shaking it in disbelief, and when he looks back up at Orochi there is pity in his smile. This one does reach his eyes, the wrinkles of his skin shifting like broken earth.

"Wow, that old goat has you good."

"Coyote," he says without looking up, his voice a razor-soft caress, "You are an ill-kept and unwelcome guest but you are a guest here, in my home, in my city. If you cannot keep from insulting me you can keep from insulting my companion. And if you cannot keep from insulting my companion you can keep from insulting my beloved master."

"And if you cannot keep yourself from doing any of that."

"You could at least refrain from robbing Jangma."

His voice is quiet, his voice is even, his voice is silken-delicate as he slowly, slowly lifts his head.

"This belongs to the Five Fingers."

There is a snort, but Coyote still has pity in his eyes when he says, "I refused your master to his face when he offered me the mysteries of all Creation, Orochi. Just as I refused the rest of the Pact in turn. I've no great love for them, and no real interest in their wants. They're not why I'm lingering in Champoor."

He waves a hand to the gauntlet.

"As for that, I didn't steal it. Like I said, came across it earlier tonight. Though it is interesting how they got their hands on blessed moonsilver. You make that for them, or are the Five Fingers getting even more in debt to the Silver Pact?"

"Hrm," he says as he studies the other man, the older man, scarlet eyes searching his face. Looking for...something, his own expression a perfectly neutral mask. The snakes across the gauntlets still, a forked tongue flickering here, there. One hisses, baring pale pink tissue. "And yet you came when they called. But sate my curiosity then Coyote, why are you lingering in Champoor?"

He doesn't answer the second question.

"I came because I owed them a debt, and there's only so long that can be put off. I'm staying because it was asked of me by one who has been denied the right to choose." The pity in his eyes deepens. For Orochi, for Champoor... For the world, if one were to dig deep enough. But still, his lips turn up into a grin. "So I offered it, and they made their choice."

"Ah. Sinla I assume," he says after a moment, his fingers drumming again, the motions fluid and easy and it's so easy to miss the way the veins slowly begin bulging beneath the pale flesh. A gentle swelling, blood vessels squirming as they come into sharper relief. Like a brush tracing patterns of ink below the skin. "I see."

"I have no skill at the forge and these are considerably older than anything I would have had the chance to attempt," he says as he spreads his hands along the gauntlets, "These were made by Tenepeshu and blessed by Luna themself."

"Any particular reason they burn whoever puts them on?"

"Likely that whoever it was," Vo Bian, Wren, one of those kleptomaniacs, "failed to meet a prerequisite for operation."

"It's exact nature? I am unsure."

"Hmm... Now I'm tempted to try my hand at it myself." He wiggles the fingers of his moonsilver arm. "Figure I've got a bit of an advantage."

"Only tempted, I hope," Orochi says mildly.

"Not in my hands anymore, now are they?" he says with a shrug. "I figure I'm probably never seeing those again, but I knew that before I walked in the door. Right now I'm just curious as to who was holding on to something so potent."

"Someone who will, in all likelihood, be sincerely relieved they're not going to be killed in the morning," he says with a matching shrug, a rise and fall of slight shoulders. "Although I could hardly fault them really, mortals have little agency or recourse when Anathema play their games."

"Now, do you have any other lectures to deliver Coyote?"

"Just one. I'm not your enemy, Orochi, no matter how much you seem to have gotten that idea into your head. The way I see it, I'm one of the few people being honest with you. And yeah, that's unpleasant. Your lover didn't much like it either. But I don't plan on getting in your way lest you give me cause to. Hell, I figure there's a great deal you and I are going to have to work together on."

Coyote shakes his head and sighs. Too all appearances an elderly grandfather, hands at his belt and lamenting the follies of youth. The image is only slightly ruined by his obvious fitness, greater than any man half his age has any right to.

"Just think on it, and on how much faith you put in Ma-Ha-Suchi to care about what you hold dear. Because you're going to face a choice, my friend, and it's going to hurt. You'd best get ready for it now."

"Ah," he says, a pale-draped ghost in the half-light, framed on every side by all that he's won, a storm roiling in the sky behind him. His eyes gleam scarlet. "I see," he says again.

And oh he does, doesn't he?

"You'll have to forgive me, dear guest, I'm not in an especially gracious mood tonight. But I will take your words under some...consideration."

"Give my regards to Vo Bian and Wren, if you would?"

"Will do," Coyote says, turning for the door. "By the way, you know what's going on with all the bugs? They're dying en masse."

"No," Orochi says quietly, his face a perfect mask, lips curved into a gentle smile as he turns back to the window, to the bay and the sucking sea of filth that he can feel beyond there, beneath fathoms of water and black mud, down where the light doesn't even reach and the rules of this last bastion of stable reality turn fluid and malleable, "I haven't the slightest idea."

  
\---

  
"You've missed me?" Curio repeats. It allows him to approach. "I understood that I was deemed a failure of craft?"

It is curious whether its touch will spark something.

Anything?

"No. That was a lie. Now, hold still..."

With a diamond-edged scalpel he opens Curio. He reaches in for what he left behind - that piece of his magic, that part of his plot - and frowns. Perfectly upsetting.

"How queer," he murmurs. "There's nothing in here at all."

He points to the mirror - and Curio can see its reflection.

There is something there.

It leans it, watching the new crack in its shell, trying to see what exactly hides beneath its perfect skin.

Inside is...

... a girl. A girl born without deformations. A girl deemed to be reaching above her station in eugenics-obsessed Ysyr.

... a table. A place of screams. A place of pain. Violation. Inhumanity.

... a waste. Where the things leftover go. Where what can't exist in the world goes. Where what was a person can die.

... a thousand-thousand centipedes. A thousand-thousand screams. Coils of defilement, festering, feasting on their own shit and rage and pain as they pretend they eat nothing and feel nothing. Desperately inhuman.

And they all explode out at once.

"Ah," it says, looking in the mirror. "Ah, it makes sense."

Something shifts in the air, something very tiny. It echoes out.

All across Ysyr, there is a strange sight: insects halt-mid flight. Termites stop their ceasless work. Spiders abandon their nets. Hornets swarm out of the nests, and join with bees and wasps into thick yellow-and-black braids. Beetles and centipedes crawl from under their rocks, from their beds of filth, and march out into streets, towards the sea. Above, a swarm forms, thin for now, but growing rapidly.

And inside the wash-bowl, Curio feels something inside her. It can't name it yet, but it feels it pulsing, spreading, oozing. She puts its hand to its chest, as if to feel it.

"Before what has to come to pass," it whispers, because as long as it is not yet a she, it can speak with calm. "I will have one question: how does it feel to hold a life in your hand? Life as fine as a petty insect that it would take you nothing to crush... or let go?"

Ytan cocks his head to the side, uncomprehending. "Why, dear 750," he says, "it feels like nothing short of everything."

Far below, in the abyssal basin where all that is discarded must one day go, Curio nods.

Far above, the skittering swarm of Ysyr takes flight above the waters: a black cloud, large enough to blot the sun. But it is not a shapeless thing, it is not without its beautiful symmetry. Slowly, it takes shape.

Far below, it speaks for the last time: "Finally."

It comes crashing back like the first gasp of air after drowning for days, like a drink after a year on the desert, like the sound of human voice after a forever of loneliness. All that Curio missed. All that was taken away from her.

"I thought it would be anger," she says in a voice that she hasn't heard in years. "But it is not. I had it all the time, I had it when I broke Buno, I carried it on me as a chain that would not snap, no matter how much I pulled on it.

Her fingers grasp the edge of the crack in her shell, right on the throat. Then, slowly, she pulls her finger up, and as she does, the porcelain parts, as if under a knife.

"No, what you took away from me was far smaller," it speaks, her voice growing heavier with each word, as if she could barely pull it from her split throat. Her finger stops where her eyes should be, splitting the sigil on her face, so that it reads: "unleashed". "It was sadness."

And then, she drives her other hand into the crevice of her skull, and splits it open.

Far above, the filth of Ysyr dances in the sky, and forms another sign, one that was never offered to the girl who would be Curio: a simple mark that a child might leave on the parent's tomb-stone. "Mourned."

The shell splits at the unseen seam, and she tears herself free from it. Viscous ichor gushes out in a thick stream as a carapaced mass writhes itself free from the prison that had contained it for so long. It struggles for a moment to be rid of the last of it; there is a sound like broken glass as hundred legs break through white ceramic, and then a wet pop. What had been Curio's head shatters. From the trunctuated neck, a long, chitinous creature emerges, its eyes trailing tears of molten silver. Long mandibles click once, twice, and the venom they drip bites through stone.

"All the tears that you have stifled," the-thing-that-was-Curio proclaims in a voice of a swarm, "all the deaths you have left unmourned, I account for."

Ytan steps back, and waters of the washbasin flowing to form a cloak around him. He laughs. "750," he says, and his voice is straining now, "you don't want to do this."

But he knows that's not true.

And he doesn't like that.

He raises his hands and chips of bone and metal rise to fill the air: and then they surge forward in a blizzard of razors.

The-thing-that-was-Curio meets this barrage head on, charging him without a word, the mark of the Changing Moon burning bright on its forehead. Carapace swats away arrows, and mandibles catch his arm.

For what it is worth, the barrage fails to harm the-thing-that-was-Curio, but slows her just enough that her mandibles merely rake his arm rather than taking it clean-off, throwing him back a few steps.

"Hope you have friends with you," Curio speaks, blood now mixed with venom. "Hope you are not alone here."

It is an iconoclasm, what she does to Ytan. He was perfect in mind and body; and now he is rent. The body sundered, tissue necrotizing at the gash's edges. The mind reeling, spinning in disarray and confusion. He howls streams of insults at Curio in Ys. None of it matters.

He tries to command: flense! Cut! Kill!

It does not happen.

Ah, she savours this moment.

She looms over him as she approaches, this time without haste. She sees the spell he is weaving, but she does not care if it comes alive. It doesn't matter.

Far above, insects dance in her praise. Here, her many legs slowly make it way towards him, a shambling creature of no determinable shape, always moving, always shifting in the dim light.

But he knows he is in her shadow. To the Sun may belong justice, but retribution is Luna's. Silver light reflects in his eyes, and his words die on his lips.

When she moves, it a strike of a coiled snake. A single moment too abrupt for an eye to see, sound coming after blow.

He carries essence of Water in his vein. Even as the-thing-that-was-Curio's blow sends him reeling, he reminas standing. half-born spell fluttering around him. But this helps him not a little. Silver light now floods the chamber, banshing all shadows and casting the monstrosity in the middle in shape relief. Her eyes are locked on him.

He says something.

Curio does not hear it.

She does not need to.

Every tear not shed, every death unmourned, she accounts for.

He shouts something, but she doesn't care; he shields himself with water and fury, and she cuts right through it. There is moment, as short as a heartbeat, when the silver light pierces the pathetic shell of the Underground and erupts to paint the sky above Ysyr with burning retribution. It's visible for miles, and all who see it recognize it for what it is.

And then, the light collapses inwards, and so does the-thing-that-was-Curio, her entire bulk compressing into a shape of a woman; of a man; of everything that was wronged. Then, there is retaliation.

A hand of braided centipedes grabs him by his throat and lifts him from the ground, into the silver conflargation. He comes face to face with the thing that was Curio, the thing that Curio is becoming, the thing that Curio forgot she ever was. There are two burning eyes in the face of churning insects, and a small mouth cracking into smile. She holds him like that for a moment, long enough to speak.

"Behold beauty," she says, and allows him to understand that what he had been always searching was always there, under every stone, in every rotten mound, in every garbage-pile. The sublime hid in filth.

And then, when the understanding sinks deep enough into he soul, she leans in, and kisses him. A mandibled tongue shoots down his throat, into his gut, and in her hand, her kiss eats him from inside, until he is no more.

And when he is gone and kissed until he is no more. There is still something left.

A hollow, sloughed-off carapace. Joints clicking as it moves.

Curio stares at the shell she molted.

Eyeless, it stares back.

She crouches by it. She could try it on like a skin, wear it again.

But no. She strokes the porcelain, and as her insectile hand touches the edges, the memories, now aligned, play themselves one by one, finally coming into order and meaning.

Far above, the swarm dispeses, the smallest creatures of the world returning to their unseen toil. Silver light lingers a moment longer but soon, it is gone too.

Slowly, Curio's warform abates. Centipedes crawl into nothingness of shadows, leaving behind a pale body of a woman, unadorned and clean.

"Illia," she remembers the name given to her, or maybe the she just gave to herself. It doesn't matter.

What matters is that finally, her sadness overtakes her, and she sits there amidst the wreckedge of the past she had recovered and cries for every day of it that she hasn't had a chance to grieve.

  
\---

  
Same Champoor time, same Champoor place. Bonemeal doesn't pop out of the ground, though - this time, he saunters in around a corner to meet the snake-woman with a man in red and gold.

"'Ey!" the Liminal calls cheerily, waving a bony hand.

The beastwoman who calls herself Sisesh, though that was not the name of the woman whose face Bian stole, bows. "Good sirs," she says humbly. She's dressed for rain, and that covers most of her inhuman features. Save when you look from the front and see the red-scaled face, the injector-teeth. "My master sends his regards."

"My master sends his too! Send regards, master!" He presents dramatically the old man at his side.

"Shut up you insufferable thing." The hooded man slaps Bonemeal, setting his head spinning in circles. As he totters around dizzily, he pulls down the hood to reveal what was once undoubtedly a handsome face. It's hideously marred, though - Bian thinks from a Wyld contaminant. "I," he says wearily, am here to ask you questions about Cathak Saran. I have all the money you could dream of. Will you answer my questions?"

"My master has sent me to do so, if the price is right." Bian's heart is flying, but then again, that's one of the reason she uses this face. Humans find it hard to read a beastwoman's expression unless they are very used to it. "There are some things he does not know, but within the docks of this city, there is much that his agents report to him."

"The price is a barge full of jade, for all I care. When I say money isn't an object, I mean it." The hooded man snorts.

Ah, see, she knows how this game is played. Sisesh backs away, her wariness clear to see. That's too much money - a scary amount of money. The kind of money no one would mean to pay - not when no one would mourn a poor beastwoman working the docks. That money is a threat, one that tells onlookers that she's too scared to lie.

"Okay. How about this, then." He reaches into his robes, and takes out an equal amount of jade as Bonemeal gave her the other day. "We'll leave it at this for now." He throws it at her feet - he's got a good arm.

Her head bobs up and down. "Yes, lord. What is your qu-question?" Oh, the hitch in her voice, so obvious even with the hissing voice of a beastwoman.

The hooded man purses his lips. He's silent for a moment, before he asks. "Do you know Cathak Saran? I would ask of you what kind of man you think he is."

She tastes the air. "I do not know him, but I have seen him and I have tailed him and my master's servants have read me reports on what he has done. I would say that from what I have seen, he is a man who is older than his face, and much older than his body. He is in fine shape for his wrinkles, but sometimes he moves as if he is even older. He keeps no servants, and lives simply; he dresses simply, but well; his arm is a thing of wonders that shines like silver."

"No. No, I asked you what kind of man. What cast his soul."

He sighs.

"I have never seen him beat a man on the street, as some of the Five Fingers do. But it is said that he fought with one of their princes, and the word is that he was outraged at something they have done." She swallows, clearly desperately wracking her brain. "Some of the agents I spoke to said that he does not much like the ways of the men who now rule this city, that he has contempt for the violent ways of divine Jangma. Perhaps that is a sign that he is a man of firm morals and intent, yes?"

"Yes... Hn."

Slowly the old man walks to Bian. He crouches down and he scrutinizes her. His breath smells like jasmine.

"You tell him, House Cathak wants him back. He owes us a debt. He owes us his service, in forging out another Realm. Anathama," he hisses, "or not."

"And if he doesn't come back to answer for his past... there'll be hell to pay."

The beastwoman nods violently. "Yes! Yes, my lord, sir. I will make sure he knows!"

He pulls his hood down. Red hair shines. He smiles without joy, and turns to walk away.

Over his shoulder:

"Be sure to tell him Nalin says hello."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nalin" is Coyote's old love that he had to abandon in another lifetime.


	16. Different Names For The Same Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A side session between the hatchling and the chirurgeon.

The waters deposited the woman at a strip of rocky beach not far from Champoor's main harbour, attracting not an insignifcant amount of attention from fishers, scavengers and other petty people who tended to frequent the place. While inn troubled times like this, it was not uncommon for the sea to spew out a bloated corpse, a blue-and-green mess of decayed flesh and fabric tangled in seaweed, this one was different.

For once, the waters did not drain any colour from her at all; she was visible from a distance away by the vibrant reds and clean whites of her dress and deep black of the mane of hair splashed around her haid, opalescent in the wet morning air of the city. When people gathered around her to ponder the nature of the omen (for it was agreed she had to be some manner of a goddess, and her washing ashore was a sign), some brave girl approached to see if she was alive. Contrary to the expectations of the crowd, she was not struck down for her insolence, and merely stirred the woman awake.

She took a moment to gather herself, brushed the damp mass of her hair away from her face (where her hand touched her skin, a shimmering blue trail was left, glitter and silver) and then apologized to the crowd for disturbing them so, and offered them all a lovely smile. Asked for her name, she replied "Illia," and, straightening to a rather imposing height, set off into the city, as if she knew it well. In later years, a small shrine was erected where she was found, and offerings were left there, for reason none could name, but none questioned either.  
In a few hours hence, the surgeon known as Orochi was alerted by one of his retainers of a muscular woman in an expensive dress awaiting at his threshold, as if expected.  
And she was, wasn't she? And he had been, hadn't he? After Coyote left he had stayed at the window into the small hours of the morning, watching the churning black waters of the distant bay. Feeling the gentle kiss of the rain on his brow, droplets beading on his jaw and dampening his coat. Wondering if the ten thousand-winged swarm would return and if it boded well or boded ill that it did not. Wondering if those foaming white crests he saw from so very far away in the heart of the Sprawl were still just white, only white, or if they were something more argent.

So it wasn't a surprise, really, when he finally got his answer.  
The moment is familiar, they've shared it before. Them or...people like them, once upon a time. Curio standing beneath the stoop of the clinic, tap-tap-tapping on the door. Wearing a pretty piece of cloth she (it- she) didn't have when she left three days before. Acting as if nothing had happened. He, immaculate in his white coat, his flowing clothes, half open over the chest to bare the delicate lines of a pale collarbone. The curve of smooth, sleek breast muscle. A graceful throat. Eyes patiently shaded, cosmetic so carefully applied, looking as if he had already been up for hours (and maybe, maybe he had).  
But she is not the shell.  
And he is not the quiet physician with moonlit dreams.  
He studies her for a moment, just a moment. She she eyes him. And then under the gaze of the dozens strong guard manning the network of barricades and brutalist fortifications around the Shogunate warehouse the good doctor takes a step back.  
And invites her in.  
"Orochi!" she says in a voice that is still recognizable as Curo's, but cleaned, made whole. In front of all of his soldiers, before she is led to the office, she embraces him, warmly.  
It's incongruous, absurd almost. Even those that think well of him, think kindly of him (and there are no few) wouldn't generally associate him with warmth. With so-human, so-mundane touches of affection. There are exceptions of course, few enough that they could be counted on one hand with fingers left over and in the end they are just that: exceptions. And so for a second it seems as if he hadn't either because he just stands there, not resisting, not reciprocating, just...bemused. Politely baffled almost. A silent "and what am I supposed to do with this then".  
And then, there on the threshold, he gently raises a single hand and wordlessly presses it to the small of her back.  
Her palm rests on his back too, and he can feel the raw strength in it. It's almost vibrating, and the warmth that she gives is not just of happiness. There is a furnace-like quality to it, the sort of power that they all have. But while his is sublte and cold, hers has grown oh so very bright.  
"We have much catching up to do," she whispers into his ear, and waits for him to lead him back to the office.  
"Mm," the sound is a soft, neutral thing. A faint twitch of the lips, and this close she can see the faint purple tint beneath his eyes, hidden under the even layer of kohl.  
Orochi's office is grand. Orochi's office is imposing. Orochi's office is all understated taste and carefully considered aesthetic and more honest, really, about who he is and what he is than the humble clinic ever was. And for awhile it is silent, the serpent in white half-sitting, half-leaning on the edge of his carved desk. Palms against the oiled dark wood, nails rest lightly against the intricate borders. The silver-leafed shrine in the corner is still shuttered close. Outside the open windows it is raining again. The pre-dawn drizzle set to turn into a wild deluge by noon. Jangma's work perhaps. Or his.  
Thunder rumbles in the distance, a forked bolt flickering behind the clouds like an adder tongue.  
"So," he says politely, mildly "What am I to call you?"  
She watches his face, and he watches hers; in many ways they are a mirror image. His is meticulousely painted, with bold black lines and sparse colour, a testament to mastery and precision, a work of a careful artist. It is beautiful. Hers is splashed with glittering colour, with silver-and-blue patches over dark skin, stray light shimmering off it. It looks almost haphazard, a work of accident. But she too is beautiful.  
"Illia," she says, offering a brief bow to the shrine and its spirit.  
"Illia," he echoes, head tipped to the side in an almost-familiar gesture, not so unlike Curio's broken-necked pecks, he repeats it again, "Illia."  
"Would you like some tea, Illia."  
"Please," she nods.  
These motions are familiar too, a kind of deja vu, a half-remembered letter found in a drawer ten years later. The handwriting familiar, the contents tickling something severed and long since amputated.  
It's been a handful of weeks for him.  
A handful of hours for her.  
Somehow it still feels like years, a broken, jagged boundary.

He makes them tea on a small stove behind his desk, he brews it strong. Imported. Expensive. From the Dragon's Dominion.

The snake watches as a wisp of steam curls from the surface of his cup, "So. What is it that I can do for you Illia?"

She drinks it piping hot, more for warmth than for taste. Even as she is right now, the cold of the city gets to her. The cold of him.

"Tell me," she speaks putting the cup down on the saucer. Porcelain clicks on porcelain, and for a moment, it almost sounds like before. "Are you well?"

"Am I...well. Hm," he sips his tea, long and slow. Swallowing, as he looks at the handsome rug underfoot. Considering it with all the ambivalence of a man who was never exactly sold on it and now can't decide if it doesn't quite fits the room or if it's just the lighting and his own bias.

"A rather antagonistic man keeps insisting he's not my enemy even as he points a firewand at my lover. A rather mysterious woman remains worryingly opaque. A rather promiscuous little bird is...well, largely useless to everyone if we're being honest but at least it means they're only a passive burden rather than an active one. Ah, and I may have involved myself in a dispute over a small child."

Another sip of tea.

"Also a dear friend of mine recently passed and their sister has come calling."

"I'm not sure 'well' quite applies," he says dryly.

Inside, she is a torrent of emotions. Worry, that he is receiving her so coldly. Pain, that he doesn't see her for who she is. But above all else, regret and sympathy. She is not sure how much he feels it, but there is something out of joint, something she finds oh-so-very-familiar.

"I don't think I have ever had an opportunity to thank you," she says, allowing her voice to be coloured with reds and blues of what she feels. "For what you did for me."

She pauses, then lowers her head in shame.

"I don't think I have recognized it myself, as much as I could recognize anything back then."

The snake sighs softly and a smile, something struggling so very much to be sincere cracks its way up the side of his face, "Come now, don't make that face and say such things. I'm being petulant and unkind. It's not the sort of thing that requires thanks. We-" she and I. It and I. You and I. Were friends? Were never friends? Were we always really strangers?

Was that all it ever really was?

She raises a hand, but not her head.

"Let me."

Eyebrows arch fractionally, but he closes his mouth and gamely covers the hairline fracture, the stray, vestigial word at the end of the answer with another sip of tea.

Then, she takes a deep breath, because this is not easy, and she no longer wishes it would be.

"You took me in when I had nothing, and you had very little," she says. "No one forced you, and you never asked for anything in return."

"You knew, all too well, what was inside of me, and yet you never said a thing."

"And...," she pauses and lifts her head. "You never tried to use me. Draw me into your designs. You just cared for me, more than I could have cared for you."

She pauses, then smiles sadly.  
"I'm sorry, Orochi. For all that you gave me, and for all that I did not give you back. And I thank you. For simple, human goodness."

The office is quiet. The office is hushed. The air outside smells of ozone and a tinge of brine and the scent of soaked cement. Another half inch towards the corner of his mouth, pale-painted lips parting as the porcelain fractures just that little bit more (just that little bit more).

"To be alone is a terrible thing," he says, and it's acceptance, apology, defense, and confession all in one.

  
"And so it's better to be alone together," she half-states, half-asks. "Even with someone... Oh, Orochi," she furrows her brow. "You were afraid of me," she states, and the words are not cold, but wounded and udnerstanding in equal measure. "All that time, you were afraid of me."

She. It. You. "Mnm," he says neutrally, that smile still in place, perhaps stuck there, without any way back or anywhere else to go, wedged in the fissures of his face. He tips his cup back and forth, watching as the deep jade-green liquid swirls, the dregs slow-revolving around the bottom.

He crosses behind his desk after a moment. The cup set on a mat as he brushes his fingers along the column of drawers.

He returns a moment later, around the other side with a fat sheaf of papers, a file in a pretty folder with paired notes in a careful hand. Cross-collated and arranged section by section, a journal of sorts. Made for easy reference.

A story of Them. It. Her.

"It would be rude and petty of me to deny such a thing."

"But it's equally hard to deny that you are...frightening."

A pause, he gestures with the proffered file.

"It's yours if you want it. It's your story in the first place really, if anyone has a clear right to it you do."

She looks at the papers, and then smiles as she pushes them back towards him.

"They don't teach the slaves in Ysyr to read," she says with a tinge of shame. "I would have no use of that. Besides... that past... it's a closed book. I found it, and I mourned it."

Then, she tenses.  
"But you did not answer my question. You knew me better than I knew myself. And, still, you thought that I could be...," again, things fall into place in her head. "You thought I came here to avenge something?"

He doesn't reject the possibility, not at first, not initially. Instead he...takes it in his hand, those slitted, scarlet eyes that see so, so much now carefully dissecting it. Contemplating the guts and viscera of it. Was it possible? Yes. Was it probable even? Yes. Was it correct?

"No," he says quietly, "The truth is that I do not know what you will do, I do not know what you will decide or what you intend or what you hold most dear now, in the heart you have made for yourself."

"And I- ah, I am a creature of compulsive habits in some ways."

"Always trying to struggle to the surface, always trying to maintain control."

His voice is heavy with irony, with something like affectionate bitterness, light self-mockery, a gaudy, jaunty gilding over something raw and razor keen.

"Again, you evade," she catches that edge, and holds onto it, but there is no reproach in her voice, no accusation. Again, if anything, it sounds of sympathy. "My heart is as it has always been. I'm still the person you took in, and in those notes, no doubt, you have accounts of what happened in Ysyr when I escaped."

"I am sure you had more than a vague idea of why it all turned out that way."

"Is it still the same?" he asks lightly, Curio, "Illia, a few weeks ago you scooped out the esophagus of a Dragonblooded sorcerer incidentally and by the time he hit the ground you had completely forgotten about him. And now you kindle brighter than ever, and in the same breath you tell me nothing's changed..."

"Not nothing," she interrupts him, voice suddenly sharp.

"A few months ago, we lived together in a small clinic and no one even knew we existed, and now this place is a fortress, and you have in opulence. Yet you are still Orochi," she says forcefully. "The same man. But changed. As we all do. But if you want proof..."

"When I went under the waves, I found the man who harmed in Ysyr, and I ate him inside out. There are bones and skin left, or would be, had my venom not dissolved them all. I am what grew out of Curio, but that doesn't mean I am not what it was."

The serpent who is a man is quiet for awhile at that. His smile flickers even as his eyes drop, a soft sigh. "Ah, you are right I suppose. And the truth is I am..."

"So miserably small in my unhappiness."

"I don't suppose you understand do you Illia?"

She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable at the question.

He raises the cup, now cool, now cold, in a small, something-less-than-sardonic-something-more-than-sincere toast.

"Curio," he says slowly, as if sounding out the words for himself for the first time, "Was a lost and struggling thing, seeking something she -it- had no name for. Wonderfully fascinating. Endlessly intriguing. So terribly provocative and engaging and keen. Their company was so strange but I...enjoyed it. I appreciated it. I came to value it. To care for it and the truth is Illia, the simple, pathetic truth is."

"Curio had, fundamentally, a need for me."

"And then she did not and so she discarded me."

"You have outgrown your shell Illia. You have outgrown your past. And you have outgrown me."

He lifts the cup to his lips and drinks. Drinks it all to the bitter dregs.

"Congratulations."

She reaches across the table, catches his hand. Holds it, squeezes. Allows the warmth to bleed through the barrier of the skin, and keep him from slithering away.

"Curio," she says, the same warmth in her voice, "could never appreciate anyone's company. The last thing it ever attempted to do was to destroy what was inside of her, because it would rather tear itself apart than admit that it was never free from others. Others who hurt it. And others who cared for it."

"And you are right. I have outgrown my shell. I have outgrown Curio. And what it couldn't do, I can."

"I can admit how important you were. And," her grip tenses. So does she. When she speaks, there is quiet roar to it. "And how important you are. I came back, Orochi."

"And what is it you want me to be then," he asks softly, not reciprocating, not pulling away, hovering in between again as at the threshold, and she can see it, those subtle veins in his arm now so stark. And she can feel it as outside the rain falls faster, harder, the world slow-dissolving into a wall of grey and white. Every gutter drowning, crashing and surging. "A friend? A companion? A colleague? A foe? Have you come to learn who I truly am, so that you might pronounce a verdict?"

"Is this what you are afraid of," she asks in turn. It seems that the colours on her face change; blues so deep they fade into purple, and then break into bright red and orange, as if licked by a gem-like flame. "That I will see into the bottom of you, and find you guilty?"

"Are we not all guilty," he murmurs as lightning flashes, as thunder shakes the structure on every side. A dull rumble beneath the soles. "We who survived where all others did not? We who became monsters so that we could endure this world? This cold and wretched world that had no use for us."

"No," he says as he squeezes back gently, head tipped the other way, studying her hand in his as if it's some strange, alien thing. His thumb resting atop her fingers. "I am not afraid that you will find me guilty."

"I may in truth be guilty and so what if I am? No, I am afraid that you will see to the bottom of me and, in that moment, become like all the rest. Like Coyote, who sees only some squirming thing worthy of pity. Like Bian, who sees only some wicked thing worthy of condemnation. Like Wren, who sees only some terrifying thing worthy of fear."

"I do not care if they do not understand."

"No, that is a lie, I care greatly but I satisfy myself with the knowledge that they will not win in the end. That they cannot stop me. That they cannot best me. That I will exceed them."

"But if you did not understand..." Curio.

Illia.

For a moment, she is quiet; almost. The sound may just be a trick of imagination, but watching the orange-and-gold splash over cheek and temple, dancing and flickering in the shifting light, Orochi can almost hear the crackle of a nearby fire.

He worries her, in truth. He is biting into stone, so that he will not fall. This is the kind of desperate strength that will not balk at anything. It is at the same time terrifying, and oh so very familiar.

At first, she can't tell why. She focuses, furrows her brow, envies him this sort of intelligence that would make it so transparent. But ultimately, it comes to her. Not in a flash, but slowly, reluctantly.

"Curio," she says as softly as she can, because she is afraid that what she will say next will hurt him, and she wants to cushion the blow, "was afraid of itself most of all. Of meeting that 'I', having to come face to face with all that ate at it."

"In the end, it cut itself from everyone because of it. Because only alone it felt that it could be free."

"I listen to you, and I hear it speaking. I hear it straining against its own chains, refusing to acknowledge or name them. I don't know Coyote, or Bian, or Wren, all that well. In fact, I barely know them."

"But I hear oh so very clearly that you are afraid of yourself. That you pity yourself. That you condemn yourself as wicked."

And there are no clever words, there is no evasion, there is only a kind of quiet as the snake in white stands, wrapped in the shadows of his vast room, of his vast fortress, of his vast city and does not deny the charges.

She still holds him.

He does not pull away.

"To be alone is a terrible thing," she whispers.

"And I don't want you to be alone. I don't want anyone to be, but I can't help everyone. I can help you."

"Because you've helped me."

"Because you were kind to me."

"But I can't do it alone. I can't do it unless you ask."

And the last thing, the most important thing, goes unspoken.

It will hurt.

His smile is a porcelain mask all askew, cracked and chipped and dropped to hard stone and hastily dusted off, slapped back in place. The storm is spilling in, rain falling through the open windows. Puddles of water forming, squirming, slow-coiling as serpents surround him. His veins bulging, bloated against the drawn, pale flesh as serpents swim within him. Beautiful scales, black and sapphire, ripple like the disturbed surface of a pond of water. Thick-bodied things stretching out of him and towards the inferno that is within her, towards her, for- what? For what? To drown that fire. To snuff it out utterly, as if the sea could march against such a flame? To warm themselves by it, to coil around it even as they boil away to steam. Simply because it is there and they know nothing but the endless writhing, the coiling of the self.

The Eight-Way-Wyrm, the colossal serpent fractured and compacted and crammed into the skin of a slight, lean man. Eight heads and eight thousand. Eight tails and eight thousand. All struggling to be free at once.

What a good joke. That such a lonely creature could be so large within itself.

I will not lie to you, he thinks but doesn't say, because she already knows. I am guilty, he thinks but doesn't say, because it is a fundamental truth, long accepted. Please... he thinks, but doesn't say, because even here, even now, even when she could so easily sink her fingers into his throat and tear out a slippery pink gobbet of trachea and pumping arteries he will not beg.

"Thank you," Orochi says, so softly it's all but lost in the storm.

"I accept."

The fire creeps down her skin, over her hand, towards him. And as she holds him and smiles, with relief and joy and sadness and all that she evaded for so long ago, she says one thing:

"Then show me your lab."


	17. Impact!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illia wants to test herself against Coyote.

There are many ways of making an ostentatious entrance. Kicking the door. Getting in someone to announce you. Making a show. But the real art is not in making a scene, but getting noticed.

There's a smile on Illia's face as she moves past the Lady's Smile bouncer, waving his reservations away with a warm smile. Her face shines as she enters, the club's lights setting the fine glittler on blue fire. Her dress, still warm red and clean white, is a modest thing, in equal measures suggesting as well as concealing the sculpted, muscular body beneath. And this is part of the reason why she enters quietly, and yet people notice.

The other reason is that she is herself, and that is reason enough.

She finds Coyote's usual table, and sits down across him.

"Hey," she greets with a wry grin. "I missed you, old man."

Coyote blinks, looking up from the small meal before him. He frowns, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the young woman, and rubs at his beard. His surprise is oddly muted compared to the rest of the lounge. He doesn't seem shocked at the woman's entrance, but rather than that she approached him in specific.

"Little miss, I think you may be..." He takes a deep scent of the air, his nostrils flaring and his frown deepening. Then he takes a deeper pull, and his eyes go wide. "Curio?"

"Illia," she corrects, chuckling. It's a brilliant sound. "Sharp-eyed as always."

"Sharp nose in this case," he replies with a shrug. "So, Illia then? That's not a bad name."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Seems you've been through a fair bit."

"The word for not changing is 'death'," she replies, leaning in. "Still, this body is a fresh thing. KInd of looking to break it in."

"Hmm... I see." He rests his chin in his palm. "You looking for something casual or more intense? If it's the latter we might do well leaving the city. I figure between the two of us we'd probably make a mess of about half of it if we went all out."

"Nothing extreme. But there's no point of keeping it tame, either" she shrugs. "You know any good private place?"

"Private might be a bit of a stretch, but there's a broken down old warehouse at the edge of the docks no one uses on account of the mold and rot. I use it as a place to sleep some nights, but it's as good a place as any unless you've got a better idea."

"Might as well," she says. "Lead the way."

Coyote rises to his feet, sweeping his bisht behind himself to settle it more properly across his shoulders, and walks out the door with Illia just a step behind him. They venture out into the bustle of the early evening, the sun not yet fully fallen but the harsh glare of the day having long since subsided. It was a time where the world held its breath, a time of transition and change, where most took their ease from labors and let themselves relax.

Is that what I'm doing? Coyote wonders as he deftly walks through crowd, his steps so sure he touches not a single soul despite his flowing garments. Relaxing? Or am I just getting caught up in her pace?

Not that such questions matter, in the end. No matter how much he might dislike it, he isn't a normal man. A life of restraint can only be maintained with select, focused periods of release. Without that there is only building pressure until the point of pain and beyond, and he is hardly one to enjoy suffering.

The warehouse is, if anything, even worse than Coyote had described. Half of its front had collapsed, leaving a portion of the roof open to the air. Something that in rain-soaked Champoor ensured the advent of decay. Sure enough, the moment he pushes the door aside a waft of unpleasant smells assaults them. Wood breaking apart into sludge, rust eating away at metal... There is even the stench of rotting meat beneath it all, likely a holdover from what this warehouse used to contain.

But the inside is mostly clear, aside from a few abandoned shipping crates long since left to moulder with the rest of the building. Coyote walks to the center and takes off his bisht, folding it up and tossing it aside. With only his red kaftan and blue sirwal it is easier to see the lean, lanky musculature of his form. Old though his face may be, his body is that of a much younger man.

He stretches his shoulders, the joints popping as he works out the kinks, and draws his flamepieces. Then he gives Illia a smile and says, "Nothing too serious, yes? So this shape, or the other?"

Illia mimicked his motions, stretching and cracking her neck. Her dress melted off her into wisps of reddish smoke, leaving her in a sleevless vest and thigh-high skirt, in her signature, vivid colours.

"No warforms," she suggested, tying her hair high. "But I am not particularly attached to the human shape, either. Your call."

"Human shape, then," he says. "I think I got a pretty good measure of you a few weeks back, and I'm fairly certain you come out ahead in a true contest about two times out of three. So if you're looking to work up a sweat then we're better off like this."

"Oh, I am not the thing I was anymore," she laughs, wiping her palm across her face. The smear it leaves behind is bold orange and gold, fresh blood or bright fire. "But have it your way!"

She folds her hands together. Briefly, silver light seems to surround them, before coalescing into chitinous-looking gauntlets of liquid moonlight.

"Let's go, then," she says, dropping into a combat stance. She kicks off, and there it goes.

Faster than the eye can see. It is such a trite saying, overused in dramas and the ramblings of old sailors too deep in their cups. But there are a few things that everyone agrees is more swift than the naked eye can make out. Lightning pushing before thunder, the darting of a hummingbird from flower to flower...

And right here, right now, Coyote as he dashes backward and lifts his flamepiece. A gout of fire bursts forth, narrow and controlled despite the hungry conflagration blowing apart some of the nearby crates with its force. An overwhelming wave of heat waves of Illia before the flames even come close, heralding their devouring power in a terrifying onrush.

The flames overwhelm Illia, but she presses against them; orange and gold sparks trailing behind her as she punches through the gout of fire and towards Coyote, struggling to keep pace.

Coyote's eyes go wide as Illia bursts through the inferno he has wrought, stepping back just in time to keep out of her range. His feet darting, sweat beading to soak his kufiyah, he raises his other flamepiece and pulls the trigger. Atop his brow a pure silver disc forms, and his body glows with lunarargent power as he bolsters his reflexes with the grace of Luna's blessing.

The effect is immediate and obvious. Even so hampered and taken off guard, the wave of fire strikes true against the charging form of Illia as she lands where Coyote was just moments before.

The flame swallows her, and this time, she doesn't push through. When it abates, she is lying flat on her ass, smoulder.

"Oh, all the gods of sea and sky...," she mumbles, struggling to get up and failing. "You're good."

It is with a shaky hand that Coyote wipes away the sweat across his brow, still staring at Illia. It's little use, however, as beneath the glow his kaftan is soaked in the efforts of his exertions. But Coyote is a man used to such things, and is not bothered overmuch by them. He holsters his flamepieces and walks over to Illia, holding out a hand.

"It's through long practice," he says with an incredulous smile. "But damn, woman. I've never seen anyone do what you just did."

"Please," she mutters, extending a hand. "Help me up. Do you have anything to drink?"

Coyote pulls Illia up with a grunt of effort, and after settling her on a crate he's fairly certain will hold her weight he makes his way to his bisht. He rummages around in the flowing garment for a short time, then pulls out a flask.

"I'm afraid this isn't water, but it'll probably wake you up some."

"Better, too," she sighs, and yanks the bottle from his hand. The drink burns, but in a good way. "If you've been training to put down Orochi, you've seriously overshot the target."

A blink, and then a furrowing of his brow. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I'm hearing you are not on the best terms with him," she says with a shrug. "And that you have issues with his vision for this city."

"Well, yes," he says, giving his own shrug. "I didn't appreciate his and Jangma's actions during the battle with the Dead, not to mention his messing with my mind to keep me from interfering. But I wasn't planning on just shooting the man."

"I mean," she takes another swig from the bottle, "you don't strike me as a talking type, so... not many other options."

"Been trying my hand at it, though it doesn't seem to be working too well."

"Which is why," she finishes the drink and tosses the bottle into the refuse pile, "I suppose you might be planning to burn him off. If things don't go according to designs."

Coyote tracks the flask with his eyes, noting where it falls, before looking back to Illia. "Only if he does something stupid, like trying to turn everyone into snake people or throw me into the bay. But really... I mean, all I've been trying to do is tell it straight to him and his idiot lover. They're not going to be able to hold this city."

He runs a hand over his face and turns his eyes toward the broken ceiling. Then he sighs and looks back to Illia.

"So you think I've been giving off the wrong impression, then?"

"I don't know," she shrugs again. "I haven't been paying attention before. But I guess you should ask him."

"Else things may turn ugly," she continues, surveying the scorch marks left by his guns. "And then even uglier," she adds, looking at her own hands.

"Ah, hell," Coyote says, frowning. "I suppose what you're saying makes sense, but... Dammit, Illia. There's got to be some accountability. They can't both just get away with what they've done, what they are doing, without at least being called out on it. And I'm not one to sit by and be quiet if I'm stuck too long in one place."

"Your words, really," she nods. "I don't know enough about this. Orochi has been good to me, and I've made him some promises."

"If you seriously threaten him, I will kill you."

She laughs.

"This may sound hollow given how you've just handled me my own ass, but trust me. I will."

"That's fair," Coyote replies. "I figure you probably can if you're going all out. But the way I see it, I'm likely going to die in this city anyway. I made a promise to stay and help people, and within a year or two this place is going to get torn to shreds."

She nods. Not really much to add to this. "Do you want to have one more go at it, when we're rested?"

"I'd be happy to. It's not often I can let loose against someone who can actually keep up."

She smiles, and lifts herself up from the crate. As she does, her skin changes, hardening into solid, opalescent chitin, refracting light into all colours of the rainbow. It is like Curio's old skin, old instead of pale white porcelain, it's colourful and lively. And it leaves her face free.

"But this time, I'm swapping into something more comfortable."

Coyote smiles, and then his body shifts. His bones pop and displace, growing longer beneath rippling flesh. Fur erupts from suddenly leathery skin as horns pierce out from his skull and his face stretches out into a long maw. His kaftan and sirwal are tight around him now, clinging to Coyote's lanky form as he stands a full head and shoulders taller than before.

"So we're getting a bit more serious this time," he says, not really a question as he pulls out his flamepieces and spits into the barrels. The saliva sizzles in the air before sliding down, settling within the chambers with explosive readiness. "Fine by me. Let's just hope the warehouse doesn't fall down around our ears, eh?"

It begins much the same as before, Coyote moving more quickly than the eye can see to gain distance and thus advantage. Up goes the flamepiece, and out erupts a torrent of fire.

"Not this time," Illia laughs, and her armored foot smashes down on the floor, hard enough to send a ripple through old wood and stone. Enough to knock Coyote off-balance for a moment.

What happens next is abrupt.

She can't go for a knock-out blow; but she can sucker-punch him just below his guard. It hurts as fuck, for Coyote.

"Feels good!" she yells in triumph as he reels.

Coyote's defense is amazing, hands and flamepieces moving swiftly to intercept with the bayonets on the ends. It is only because of his inhuman skill that he has any chance at all, and comes as close as he does to deflecting Illia's attack. But she just manages to slip past him, her fist slamming into his solar plexus and forcing all the air out of his lungs in a painful rush.

The next blow is way worse.

Shrouded in silver light, Illia moves with awful force, smashing through Coyote's guard, punching him straight in the chest. It hurts as hell; but seconds after the blow connects, Coyote starts feeling a very serious nausea.

This is not good.

Well, this is unpleasant.

It's an understatement, but Coyote is not a man prone to exaggeration or excessive use of flowery language. He's in trouble, and he knows it. Illia is just as deadly as he imagined in this state, perhaps even more so, and he made the mistake of initiating this fight the same way as he had last time. There were, and are, other options available to him...

But he doesn't want to escalate quite that much in what is supposed to be just a friendly exercise. So instead of berating himself further, he points his flamepiece at the ground and engulfs the world in a towering inferno.

Fire has never bothered her anyway.

The next blow she delivers is reasonably merciful, enough to knock him down on his ass briefly and let her venom finish the job.

Then, realizing that the warehouse is on fire, she curses, grabs him, his discarded flask, and just drags him out into the streets, allowing the perennial Champoor's rain to just finish the job.

Some moments later, they are together, watching the blaze slowly die down. Illia holds Coyote tenderly as he vomits into the gutter.

"I guess I am a bit of a sore loser," she says with a shrug.

"It's fine. Went about how I expected it might," Coyote mutters, steadying himself with one hand on the wall as his body finally, blessedly, purges the toxins from his system. He rubs the back of his hand across his lips. "Thanks for pulling me out of the fire. It doesn't hurt me, but the roof falling down on my head would have been inconvenient."

"Just don't try anything on Orochi," she asks, giving him a firm pat on the back.


	18. Cracks in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orochi takes Sinla out for tea.

  


It's not as good as Big Man's, Orochi thinks as he sips the jasmine brew, but, for now, it will do.

He sips the tea, seated at a shaded, outdoor table, the only one with people in the empty patio floored with cold stones. From here, he can peoplewatch with ease, Uptown's inhabitants going about their mid-afternoon errands on the gentle downward roll of the hill below. But it's not them he's out to tea with.

"I think this mix is Volvatian?" Sinla delicately sets his cup down, running his tongue over his lips. "Mm. No, it's Tairan. Too thick in consistency not to be." He's rather a connoisseur, as the Lunar has found.

They've just made small talk thus far. Few topics, fewer words. He's enjoying himself today, truly - more than he's afraid of Orochi for once.

"Ah," says Orochi with a smile, "The luxury of a port city. You have a discerning taste."

The sky is grey. The rain falling softly, fine gauzy veils drawn over the slick streets and stone rivers of Champoor. The air is cool without being clammy, the tea house warm without the sickly, sweaty claustrophobia of humidity. It's a beautiful day, the whole world painted in blues and greens and the glistening sheen of a place alive and he...

He doesn't know why he's here. He doesn't know why he's at this teahouse with Sinla. He doesn't know why he has this polite, mechanical smile on his face and he doesn't know why he's drinking from this cup when something in him wants to-

Wants to-

Hurl it. Smash it against the wall and watch the contents trickle down. Call upon the storm, the roaring currents to wash it all away. Wash this whole city away. Wash himself away. What is this? What is this thing that Illia's done to him? This breach in his porcelain perfect armor, this awful, violating slit running from navel to neck, the wet, rainy wind caressing his insides. What is this infection he can feel, chewing beneath his skin. Boiling beneath his flesh. Spreading. Feeding. His own body at once unbearably confining and irreparably frail.

He wants to scream, he thinks.

He takes another sip instead.

And keeps smiling.

Rain patters. Spray misting, breath fogging, riotous colors and smells blurred. A city in loose brushstrokes; two people painted in relief.

Eventually the boy is done drinking his tea. When he does, he sets it down on the silver plate with a click, and breaks the spindly, brittle silence. "Orochi" he says, "you only come to me when you want something; I trust you did not take me out to lunch solely to converse about tea. I would hear what it is that you want from me."

"Hm?" The snake all in white asks, idly, absently and it's so mundane, so normal, the reaction of a man only half paying attention to a polite conversation and that alone is...

Unnerving.

Orochi sees so very much with those bloody red eyes. Orochi is never anything less than utterly immaculate. Orochi is never anything other than meticulous and precise and deliberate. And it's all there, all the proper pieces are there, everything is almost (almost) as it should be. Every note in harmony save for one.

And so that one, single syllable is made all the more unsettling.

Sinla sighs, tired in a decidedly unchildlike fashion. He folds his hands together on the table "I have spent my life learning how to read the intentions of those more powerful than I; weather their dark humors; present what is desired; reveal nothing that isn't advantageous. I wear faces too, Chosen of Luna.

"So please, believe me when I say that you are not especially mysterious to me. I have known men who look to the horizon, heedless of the thunderclouds darkening their thoughts since I was born. The only difference is, right now, you're winning,."

He tips his head to the side, in curiosity or in inclination, or both. "I pose no threat to you. I can do nothing with knowledge of your heart of hearts or your pain. Nothing but listen."

"If you like."

"Partner."

"Oh my, such venom," he says as he slowly blinks, "Even as you so graciously lend me your ear. Now I just don't know what to think. Perhaps in the end all I did want was some tea with a business associate. Is that such a sin?"

"Wasting my time is a sin. I'm Dragon Caste."

He smiles cheekily.

"We can add it to my tally then."

Sinla's smile - it's playful. Respectful. Warm. But haunted. He hurts, too. He's scared, too.

He's scary, too.

It's a smile of empathy.

"Hrm. Well then," he says conversationally as he sets his cup on his saucer, eyes a touch too wide, smile a touch too sharp, slit-pupils dilated and pointed canines bared, "I'll have you know I've been thinking of having Coyote killed. He's become rather annoying you see, and frankly I don't think much of the man. And I've been thinking of having Illia killed, for this terrible condition she's induced in me and I'm reasonably sure I could manage it. And really I've been thinking of having Vo Bian killed, simply because I am unsure as to her means and her motives and -really when you consider what's at stake- it's generally more prudent to play it safe. And I've been thinking of having Wren killed because-"

"Well at that point, why not kill Wren?"

"Why not kill everyone in Champoor honestly."

"Why not kill everyone in this whole Direction."

"What's actually stopping me Sinla."

"Why have I not done this and neatly solved every problem of this port and greater Prasad in the process."

"Oh- I suppose my master wouldn't approve. It'd be an exorbitant waste of resources and likely demonstrate that I'm unreliable. Hrm."

"Perhaps that's it."

"Perhaps." Sinla's smile wilts into a thoughtful frown as he considers Orochi's words. "That is not a word I associate with you. Nor is it one you like, I imagine."

A pale hand rests on the tabletop, a black nail digs into the wood, sculpting a divot like the solid construction was so much soft clay. Worrying back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

"I," he says with that same smile slathered in place, canting at a sloppy angle as it starts to slide down on one side while staying firmly fixed on the other, "Am without a doubt the most intelligent person you have ever, possibly will ever, meet."

"And I don't."

"Understand."

"Why."

"Ah."

And isn't that a terrible sound. The counterpoint to the question. Understanding and empathy and fear in one word. The sound of someone who sees the writing on the wall and recognizes the handwriting.

Sinla clears his throat, and leans forward. He puts his small, only slightly trembling hand on Orochi's.

"Fear," the boy says, "is like rainwater in Champoor. It never stops. It never leaves. I am afraid every moment of every day in this city. Do you know what that lets me be?"

"Of course you do. You're the Eight-Way Wyrm." His expression is vulnerable, but genuine.

"It lets me be brave. Every time I face that fear, I get the chance to be brave."

“And what good is bravery.” He says softly and his voice is a whipcrack, a strand of razor white slicing into frail only-human flesh. Keen, seething contempt fit for flaying a man alive. He spits the word like it’s a curse, a malediction; like bravery fucked his father and murdered his mother. “What good is bravery in this world? What has your courage done for you Sinla, kept you alive to be a pawn? A piece on the board between two witches whose designs you do not see or comprehend?”

“Bravery didn’t save the Realm.”

“Bravery didn’t save this city.”

“Bravery didn’t even save you.”

“And yet you speak that filthy word so freely don’t you?”

Sinla laughs bitterly. "I'm sitting at a table, your prisoner, your partner, having murdered my father, estranged myself from my homeland and turned myself into a political bargaining chip. There is nothing free in how I speak of bravery. I have paid for it. I am, this conversation, paying for it. I am terribly afraid."

"Please, Orochi. Do not insult me."

"Then why?" He asks as he tips his head to the side, conversational, just like every other word he's spoken, voice scarcely raised, nothing more than a moderately intense conversation not even heard by the other patrons of this place.

"Then what is the point."

"Because if I don't I stop living."

"And what is the point of living," he snarls back, mask fracturing along the seams, a jagged, crumbling mess as his hand spasms and the tabletop splinters. And then it's up again, held in unsteady place. And the veins swollen along his smooth, sinewy forearm are slow-ebbing, and the curious, anxious, wary eyes that glanced their way are all back intently on their tea, their plates, the sky outside.

There are deep puddles outside the teahouse. The storm drains all but overflowing. There is a kind of furious intensity to the rain. The deluge hissing like numberless snakes.

Slowly, slowly the anger fades.

Dwindling, dying, taking everything with it. Leaving behind silence and exhaustion and a kind of hollowness in its wake. The snake all in white, sitting in his chair with his hair to his shoulders and his features the very emblem of almost-androgynous beauty and seeming as if he hasn't slept in days.

"Do you know why I'm alive Sinla?" He asks, he could have been talking about weather, the boy's taste in tea, the trade in the customs houses.

Sinla sighs, leaning back in his chair. Hands retreating. He shakes his head. "No."

Orochi tilts his hands over, palms up, the emptiness an explanation in and of itself, "Ah, what an unfair question. Especially when you know so little of me Sinla. I'm of the Realm, I'm sure Bian at least has told you as much, if you didn't discern as much yourself. It's not great secret in any case."

"But do you know."

"Where I am from?"

Slowly horror sweeps the boy's face.

"You're Wan," he whispers.

"You're-"

"They called it," he says softly, "The Imperial City."

"I was there the day the two suns shone in the sky. I was there the day the mountain fell and the mere shockwaves of its impact scoured the land for miles around and collapsed coast into sea. I was there the day dust swallowed everything and the Dead walked and the ground split open under our feet."

"Show me the meaning in the charred bones of my homeland Sinla. Show me the meaning in the ash and the dust. Show me the meaning in the ragged, tatters of fleeing humanity," and the word is so caustic it's a surprise the table doesn't blister and smoke as it falls from his lips, "scattering outward in every Direction."

"Did bravery fill their stomachs Sinla? No. It was boiled grass and soft bark and a hunter's stew they were so willing to pretend was only deer."

"Did bravery save them from the bandits? No. They came and they reaved and they raped and they butchered as they pleased and left untouched."

"Did bravery spare the children, Sinla? Did it spare the aged and wise? Did it spare the just, the meek, the pious, the kind?"

"No."

"They died. They died nameless and unmoured in foreign lands, one among the countless missing."

"Do you know what saved me in the end Sinla?" He says and his voice is gentle, almost tender.

"It was a monstrous whim. From a monstrous thing. Too late to do anyone any good."

"And so here we both are."

"So tell me," says the new prince of Champoor, fine tea forgotten as he sits on the highest hill of the wealthiest part of his great city, "What the point of it all was."

"Show you the meaning," Sinla echoes.

The young boy is pensive, only a few tears in his eyes. He reaches for a silver plate, and holds it up for Orochi to take.

He leaves the snake, looking at, for the first time in a long time, his reflection. That most terrible and wonderful thing.

A man.

A life.


	19. Pretty Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vo Bian and Wren connect.

A cool breeze rolls in from the sea, bringing with it the scent of strange things. Strange phosphorescent things have been blooming in the Dreaming Sea, and now they are dying. They are dying and washing up ashore. Most small, the size of a man's fingernail at most, but some have been much larger. In the docks, they are butchering something the size of a caravan, peeling off its many brightly-coloured scales and draining its still-warm blood for sail to alchemists, wyldworkers, and black-market thaumaturges.

From atop one of the old, disused lookout towers, Wren can see the butchery down below. The docks are bustling, anonymous in their multitudes; wealthy in their flowing facelessness. The insects here are strangely numerous; pretty many-coloured things perching on the walls and rustling in the passionfruit vines that sprawl up the facades of the buildings once-built for war. The eternal rain has gone and in the sun new things are coming to light. Some beautiful. Some ugly. Most somewhere in between.

"Are you feeling a bit better?" It's Bian from behind them, her black hair neatly coifed, her silk dress the same blue-green as her nails, her lips red and her eyes a matching scarlet. "I brought you up here because it's one of the places I go when I find the noises of the city are getting too much. When the wind is blowing from the east, they're washed away - and all you can hear is the sea."

"I'm feeling pretty alright, yes." Wren traces a finger across a wooden ledge. Surprisingly it's actually pretty well-kept for a disused watchtower at the edge of a dock. It's quiet, calming even. The kind of word that they would never use to describe Champoor.

"Though I never thought the bay could look worse. I'm kind of impressed, really. It's making me nostlagic for Old Champoor. The rainy one, where it felt like death freshly warmed over."

They sigh and lean back, then cross their legs over one another.

"Though at least there's some sunlight. That's a welcome change. The quiet, too..."

They turn their head to Bian, flutter their eyelashes and purse their lips. They've decided on blue lipstick today, with a faint blue eyeshadow.

"So, how do I even start? I thought singing was going to involve me chirping out a few tunes, and then a crowd cheers, but I'm still...well...kind of stuck? I never thought I could be stuck on something." They mutter something about a pillory.

She shrugs. Somehow she's produced a stool from nowhere, though she definitely didn't carry it up. "I suppose we're not here just for rehearsals," she says, crossing her legs. "I thought some of it was that I could see that you're feeling claustrophobic. Trapped," she quickly clarifies. "I hoped the sea breeze could clear your head. Shake loose some of the thoughts that seem caught up in your mind."

Wren laughs a little hard at the word 'trapped'. "Trapped? Noooo! Oh, no, I am perfectly fine! I'm not trapped by anything hahaa...ah..." They look past Bian, further into the ocean.

"Okay, perhaps being far away from Orochi's house of horrors is a welcome change of pace." They narrow their eyes. "I just...needed to leave? I tried leaving town but the ships just...well...they caught me before I could even transform and take off. I could have done anything but I just..."

A bloody candlestick. Them panting over a corpse. Blood dripping off their outfit, drool sliding out of their mouth as the realization of what they did hits them. The reason they had to get rid of their old clothing.

"Okay maybe I have things to talk about." They brush their hair away. "I've had a month to think on it and I just...haven't been able to shake it at all."

They swallow. "Am I a bad person?"

Her face falls sympathetically. "Oh Wren," she murmurs. Slightly husky. "One of the hard questions, mmm?

"If you want the truth from me, I don't think there's such thing as a good person or a bad person. Not down," she touches her chest, and her head, "in our hearts and our heads. I think it's all what other people say about us. What we do. If you're kind to others, if you're never cruel and you don't strike out, if you try your best to think about what others are feeling... then people won't say you're bad. You're not born good. You're not born bad. It's something you do every single day.

"I think that's easier that way. It means it's a choice. You can think terrible things, hate an awful, awful person as much as you like - but when the Moon has laid her hand on you, not doing something is a very meaningful choice. I... I really don't like Orochi. I think he's awful - but that's not who he is. It's what he does. He could stop cutting people up, he could stop working with those cruel, callous gangs, he could stop scrambling to the top on a pile of bodies. Today. Right now. He could make that choice and he would be not who he is.

"So no. I don't think you're a bad person. And if you've done bad things, that's something you can change." Her eyes drift up to the slither of moon visible in the day, a crescent blued by the sky. "We can all change who we are."

Wren looks her up and down. They raise their arm, bring their elbow to the wooden ledge next to them and lean against it.

"I suppose that makes sense for you. For someone who's seen a lot of people come and go. But I just...well, I mean...."

They raise their left hand. Their fingers curl as they try to find the words, and moon knows they're having a hard time.

"Orochi's a fucker. He's a big snake dick, and not the fun kind. But if it wasn't true then I'd think it was easier to shake what he said off. But I mean...well...it's kinda true, isn't it. And it stuck for a month."

They keep their eyes trained on Bian. "Perhaps he could change but, I mean, he's sending out gangs and...snake people? Sneeple?"

"It's not always easy to change who you are. And he's so stubborn about it." She joins Wren at the top of the tower, resting her arms on the stone as she stares down at the twisted wyld-beast they're butchering. "Perhaps that's what he is. Think about it. He's a man of the Realm, and the Realm... the Realm was evil. It was evil for what it did to people, and it was evil for what it made people into. Its own people as much as what it... it did to everyone else." There's a hitch in her voice. A catch, bitten back.

"And then he fell into the arms of Ma Ha Suchi, and that wolf-goat is a wicked old man who's... who's just the worst! He could be anything, and he chose to be a monster, sitting in his jungle, stewing in millennia of hate. The Silver Pact has such awful old men in it. With so much power. This ancient monster who wants a world where he's in charge of the Realm, an Argent Emperor.

"I almost feel sorry for Orochi." She doesn't face Wren. "Almost. He never stood a chance. But he could break away and he doesn't want to. And that's the worst kind of slavery there is. He'll never slip his master's leash. And he'll never change until he does."

Wren blinks. Honestly realizing that Orochi is as much of a slave to his own problems should be a relief but it's...really not. They don't feel relieved at all.

"Ah...ha." Wren coughs into their fist. "The realm's evil, our powers are arbitrary, there's a secret Lunar conspiracy, Orochi's also a slave to Daddy Ma Ha Suchi."

They pause again.

"I...guess I ain't surprised? I mean, I'm really not. Dunno. I don't know much of anything." They lean against their fist again and look out into the ocean. There's another few seconds of pause.

"Yeah there's just...it's a lot. I never thought about it. I don't like to 'cause honestly fucking and stealing is way more fun but it's still a lot of...it feels small. I feel small. I got these powers and I used to think, 'oooh I deserve it I'm so good at living' but it's just like..."

They trail off.

"Has he been telling you that he's such an adult for doing what he does, and you just need to grow up?" Bian's voice is soft, almost choked. She still doesn't turn around. "He likes doing that. He likes framing the world so he's so adult, so mature for doing what he was. As if you don't have any other choice."

Her hand goes to her face and when she turns around her delicately applied mascara is smudged, streaked against the back of her hand. "Isn't it awful when he makes you feel stupid? He likes doing that to me all the time. 'Oh, look at me, look how big my brain is and how small my heart is'." Her mimicry is perfect. "Just because I'm not some kind of a genius. I'm just... normal. I can think fast, but I'm not some... someone like him. You shouldn't let his mind-games get to you."

They almost say 'that's uncanny'. Then they remember she's Anathema and she can just do that.

"So it's...it's like just the kinda thing he just likes to do, isn't it? Yeah, he was like 'don't make a mess of my home' and he just tore into me like I was a child and blah blah blah," they stick their tongue out and make a mouth with their hand, "and I make sneeple look at me here have a cup of tea, now shut up, eat dick and get outta my way because you don't get your poooooowers."

Their impression is nowhere near as accurate. In fact it's a terrible impression.

"He learned who he is from the Realm." There's an undernote of venom to her words. "Something that takes and takes and takes - and then gets offended if anyone doesn't do what he wants. Someone who considers his desires to not only be the most important, but also everyone else's needs. He'd..." she chokes, "he'd make a man his slave, and then tell them he's doing a favour because he's making sure they're fed, then not feed them because he's busy shipping all the grain off elsewhere to fill his pockets."

She chuckles, low and soft and vicious.

"He should have been chosen by the Sun. Look how offended he gets that we're not his slaves fitting perfectly into his models."

Wren snickers. "Oh, I mean, little old me doesn't fit into much of any model. And I don't think you would either. He wants something perfect. A toybox full of toys that act to his whims and just wants to be perfect." They wave their hands around. "And he would. Yeah. He so would."

Wren laughs. "And I thought I was just a terrible person! Woo!" They clap their hands.

She sweeps in, gives them a hug; soft, smelling of passionfruit and jasmine. "You're not - and it's your choice to be. Or not to be. That's what the Moon wants of us. Choice. Change." She snivels, then giggles. "Have you learned how to change your face? Become someone else? Someone people like him won't look down on because they have no idea who you are?"

Wren wriggles in the hug. "Ohhh, uhh...no I haven't? I haven't realllllllllly needed to. I mean I do have people kinda noticing me from time to time but..."

They shrug.

"Maybe that can be something else to learn after the lesson?" They smile. "Ooh, I also think I got a few ideas for more of the song. I was like, writing about someone I knew a long time ago."

She lets go, leaping up onto the wall to balance there in her soft slippers. She stands there not like someone who knows they won't fall, but who doesn't care if they do. "Someone you knew?" She pauses, clearly hesitant. "Who were you, Wren? Before all this? Before the Moon claimed you as her child?" She pauses, swallows, radiating nerves. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," she says, every muscle clearly on the edge of flight.

Wren pauses. They take a look to the side. "...I mean...hrm." They take a breath. Honestly maybe it's a step they should take. Something they could bring up...

Fuck it.

"I was nobody." They say.

A pause.

The waves crash underneath.

The tower creaks a little. And Wren immediately realizes that it's not exactly satisfying as an answer.

"I really was a nobody. Before this, before the moon blessed me, I was abandoned on the side of the road. I was a boy that was left behind to rot. I had a pot. I tried to perform. Did a little bit of a dance. But as the money dried, as the food rotted, it got harder to eat.

"And it got harder to dance. And a month later, I couldn't even stand."

"So!" They clap their hands. Try to play it off. Move right on along. Undersell it. Make it a joke.

"I was a corpse on the side of the road! How about you?" They have a broad, toothy smile. They're still trying to play it off. It...probably won't work.

But it's worth a shot.

She smiles, but it's not a happy smile. The sorrow runs like wine. "A peasant. A nobody peasant from a nobody village on the coast. I left that little village once, for a wedding of a kinsman. It's bad luck for a woman to leave the land where the spirits know her, you see. They'll get offended if no one is there for her. We're not like Coyote and Orochi, mighty lords from the Realm-that-Was.

"But one of those mighty lords felt he needed a little more spending money. Some spoilt brat whose purse had run short on his grand tour of 'barbarian lands'. So crimson sails came. And after that day, I was the only one left in the village. Everyone alive was gone on the ships, and everyone else was dead." Her eyes are a few thousand miles away, to the west. "I had to build the pyres. For everyone. Old. Young. They wouldn't leave me alone until I'd sent them all."

Wren tilts their head, with a slow, steady nod of understanding. "But now you're a singer. At a place you own." They smile. "Not a bad place..."

They look down to the ocean. "I think that's the first time I told anyone about that. And I didn't think you would actually tell me yours."

"Sometimes you just have to believe in people." Her eyes are watering. "Trust is such a hard thing. But so easy. You're not like Orochi. I wouldn't... couldn't tell him this. He..." she swallows, "he's the sort of person who'd accuse me of trying to tug on his heartstrings. Then probably start acting superior and say the only reason I stand up to him is because I'm torn up from something that wasn't even his fault and I need to grow up." She reaches out, rests her hand on theirs. "Please... I don't want people t-to use it against me. And I'll keep your secrets too."

Wren gives her a smile, and it's not coy or wry or sly or seductive. It's a genuine ear-to-ear grin. They rub their thumb atop her hands.

"Yeah. I'll make sure, Vo Bian."

She smiles back. "Please, just Bian. No need to add my family name on."

"Alright, Bian."

She smiles, and the smile is as warm as her passionfruit and jasmine perfume.

They eventually did get some vocal training done, if after an hour of chat and talk and feelings and emotions that Wren had rarely touched and Bian was all-too-familiar with. They talked and talked and talked, chattering as the sun set against the waves and the moon began to peek into the sky.

They did eventually part from the tower, down the steps on their own ways. Bian to the Lady's Smile, Wren to another young man with more libido than mind.

But this night, despite the dying bugs and the faint smell of trash of an infested city and the patrols and rot lying behind every corner, two pretty little things found a kinship.

A small one, a faint one, a newborn one. But no less precious for it.


	20. Love and Affection for Stupid Little Bitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illia goes dancing with Jangma.

The idea to see Jangma passes Illia's mind when she passes by a winery; while the connection is not really obvious to her, it is strong enough that she stops in her afternoon stroll and confidently steps inside, intent on treating the city-god with something wineish (as wine speaks of taste and class; or at least that is the idea that is stuck in her head). Since she strikes an imposing figure, and her dress (althogh woven not from silk, but rather fleeting mothlight) marks her as someone to watch for, the middle-aged, hawkish-looking woman working the counter immediately pays attention to her. And since that women had been in the business of catering to stray aristocrats and wasted youth for the better part of her life, she immediately recognizes Illia for what she is: an easy mark.

"How can I help you, my beautiful lady?" she asks, and in that, she makes her first, fatal mistake: assuming that Illia has any money.

But she only has a smile.

Some time later, the Lunar leaves the winery with two bottles of a fine Prasadi vintage and a promise of a date; she is pleased. Humming to herself, and setting the flames dancing across her face into reds so bright as to verge on hot pink, she sets out towards Orochi's compound, to there find the cute god. This is shaping up to be an excellent night.

The soldiers that swarm through the Sprawl's patrolled corridors let Illia pass without incident. Not just because they couldn't hope to stop her - Orochi's sent out word: This is Illia, and she walks free. And so it is that the radiant woman with the bottle of wine strolls into the brutal, honeycombed compound where the snakes make their lair.

An appreciate whistle grabs her attention. "Well hhh-eh-ehl-lo there," Jangma drawls, eyeing Illia up and down. "You really got yourself a glow-up, huh? What brings you to my humble abode?"

Illia slams the bottles on a nearby table, beaming.

"I bring gifts to my best friend's boyfriend!"

"Excellent. Servant!" Jangma claps his hands, and a gaggle of hooded snake-men appear. Literally - they stretch and fold like a cobra's. "Bring us cups and snacks!"

Crystalline glasses and greasy street food are provided in short order before they retreat out of sight again. One of the servants shoots Jangma a thumbs-up and a bawdy, slit-eyed wink before he vanishes again.

"Ooooohhhhhh. This looks real nice." He sits down on a cushion and inspects the wine, pouring a cup for Illia, before he takes a long pull from the bottle.

Illia holds the cup up to investigate, mimicking his motion. She has no idea what to expect out of wine, to be honest. She then downs it all in one go, again in eerie similarity to Jangma's motions.

"Oh, she was right! This does taste nice!" she provides her expert sommelier's opinion. "So happy to see you again, Jangma."

"How do the days go?"

"They go by quick, that's how they go. But I think I got a handle on things." The gangsters burps and smacks his lips, satisfied. He grins rakishly. "Oooh. That's some good stuff."

"Say... I'm curious though. How'd you uh... y'know. You used to be a hypnotizing little thing, and now you're..." He makes a gesture. "This. Not that it's bad, or anything."

He looks at her curiously, with glittering eyes. He's an easily distracted god with a fondness for pretty things, yes - and pretty people, too. Especially ones that are interesting as well.

The flames across Illia's face flicker, passing through reds, pinks, oranges, into deep blues and purples. It's like watching a sorcerous torch skitter over dark skin.

"Luna is many-faced, and ever changing. Why should I be anything less?"

"That's a good point." Jangma nods, taking another swig from the bottle. It's a long pull.

"All of you supposed to be like that, then?"

She shrugs, then grabs the other bottle and matches his swig.

"I suppose," she says, and the flames down die a little. "But they caught up, and..."

Before the conversation can turn sour, she brightens up. "Say, you and Orochi basically own the town now, no?"

"Not as much as we'd like, or as many people as we'd like. But most of it, not including the odd pocket here and there. Why do you ask?"

"Because if this city is yours," she replies with a quickly-broading smile, "why stay in this dour den? Wanna go dancing?"

Jangma mulls it over for a moment. Then he laughs, shaking his head. "You know what, you're right. Fuck, you really are. I haven't been dancing in a while. I'm taking myself too seriously. Sure."

He stands and motions gallantly with one arm. It's almost gentlemanly. "After you, my good lady.

But nothing about her swagger is lady-like, bottle arcing high in her arms.

"Let's, then. Want to make a scene at Bian's place?"

"And give that bitch a headache? Ha! Do I ever."

"I knew you, of all people, would understand," she laughs, as the flame-pain burns down her neck chest. "Let's make it a spectacle to behold!"

\---

It's a sight to behold. It's a night to remember. The pretty devil with the god on her arm, making the floor theirs. The crowds part around them and spotlights train on them, derailing all plans for the nights' entertainment and usual business.

They are loud, and they are beautiful, and they are loved, dancing away into the night. Even if some of the club staff are glaring balefully.

Some things need to be understood about Illia's approach to dancing.

First of them is that somewhere, mid-way to Bian's club, she has lost her dress, or at least the upper half of it; it took Jangma a long time to even notice, because by then her entire body was covered in shimmering, animate flames, painterly rendered in gem-like colours. In a way, she looked less human and more elemental, a dancing fire.

The other is that her laugh and baritone voice carries far, and silences others; and this is a night she enjoys, and so she laughs a lot.

And finally, that she was never trained in any dance, and never learned any moves; but she knew her body well enough to slam it against others with the supre confidence of someone safe in their beauty.

In later accounts, she and Jangma would be likened to many things, but most often to phenomena of weather, of volcanism in a storm, of a moonsoon quenching a flame that keeps coming back; such stories would be told.

But in the moment, she is just there, and she watches Janga be there with a wild laugh, entirely pleased with the god next to her inhabiting every inch of his body, and then some.

"How're your legs?" she shouts at him in between contact.

"You tell me!" Jangma hollers with a crazy laugh before lowering himself into a split, legs flat on the ground. The crowd erupts and he sinuously winds himself back up onto his feet, the rhythms pulsing and flowing through him.

"They feel better than ever just from dancing. They love me. They love us. This is a form of prayer and I'm it's great."

"Don't you wish Orochi was here with us?"

She feels the eyes on her, and the most liberating thing in all of it is that she can drink their gaze, and never feel touched by it.

"I wish he wanted to be. Wanted to go out and just live, reckless and wild and enjoying everything." His hair, heavy with sweat, swings in front of his eyes. This is the first his lover, her friend, has come up all night.

She smashes her body into his; there is a hiss of steam, there is a roar.

"Has he ever cried?"

He presses right back, holding her close for a moment - then spinning away before coming back again. They're hot and cold at the same time.

"Him, cry? Nice fucking joke. I wish he would."

She inhabits her every move, and puts all of her soul into that. Because this is what helps her feel like she say what she has to say:  
"And what if he never does? What if he kills that in him, for good?"

There are ways, she knows, to perform surgery on one's soul. Heal it, maybe. More often: cripple.

Jangma answers with words and with dance. If Orochi loses what's under that mask - if there's nothing to pry out of the shell - then he can't be with him anymore. Because there will be nobody left to care about. The appeal, the romance, the danger will all be gone. Orochi the person will be gone, leaving only the snake.

He won't let that happen.

She stomps forward, tall, impressive, intimidating.

"He has to shed."

And then she just imagines. All the past, all the burdens, all the guilt, all that clinging to Orochi like strips of a shed, refusing to come up. Old leather constricting the blood, causing the flesh to go cold, to wither and die.

Jangma winds sideways. Constricting her space. Making it hard to breathe.

"He's gonna snap. We both know it - he's gonna crack. The question is, is it an explosion of life? Or an implosion of death?"

"I could speed that up, if I did everything I want to tonight. If I was more selfish, I would. If I hadn't met him, I would." His breath is sweetly cool on her neck, like winds promising rain.

She allows him to wrap himself around her, she allows him to feel the heat radiating from her as if a furnace. But her hand is on his back, and she allows her strength to be felt. The sort of strength even gods fear.

"I wouldn't let you," she says without a hint of a threat; why would she. "But he has to break. We all do. Else..."

"...I see in him things I won't let walk this Creation. I see in him people I want to thrive."

She thinks of his laboratory, of the ways the flesh twists and changes, of the power of man over life; she thinks of Ysyr, and of the good doctor whose name she has forgotten, because it is not his name that should be remembered.

There is a worry in her smile, and her flames turn purple and blue.

Does he know? Does he suspect? That she worries she will one day see in him just that good old doctor?

"Ha. Good. Then I'll be counting on you."

Jangma cups her face tenderly, and his smile is soft and genuine.

They dance long into the night, and have no further need for words.

When the morning comes, she carries him back to Orochi's compound, so blissed out on exhaustion that the world seems a beautiful blur.

As she leaves, she feels a tingling on the back of her neck. Eyes, watching her.

She allows that person to follow them, never once turning back. To see how far they'll go.

They go all the way, and at the threshold, she puts Jangma down. Luna is many-faced and ever-changing; but the patters repeat. She turns back to face a person yet to hatch, and speaks to a kind of her past:

"You need to rest. Come inside."


End file.
